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    A Larry Comes
    A Larry Comes
    A Larry Comes
    Ebook182 pages2 hours

    A Larry Comes

    By Ulf Wolf

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    About this ebook

    Tell me, what good is it to have God visit you if you can't tell anybody about it? Or, if not God, then somebody looking very much like him, or how I had pictured him. Perhaps, to be safe I should call him god, you know, lower case "g."

    No, that won't do. There's no escaping it: it was the Almighty all right, our capital "G" Father-of-the-Son God. I don't think there's any doubt about it. Let me rephrase that: There is no doubt about it.

    Yes, yes, I know it sounds crazy, but now and then things happen to you, incredible things, thing you cannot explain but that you cannot deny—not to yourself anyway. For they did happen, and you know they did, whether the whole thing sounds crazy or looks crazy or feels crazy or is crazy or not. Took place. Occurred. Yes sir. So when in truth I did lay eyes on him, did talk to him, did meet him, how can I deny it? I can't.

    My mistake was sharing it, and perhaps that's the lesson to draw from all of this: Keep your mouth shut. Especially around close relatives and people in white coats.

    It was a Tuesday, a rainy one. My room had that dampness about it, that musty smell that only ventures out after three days of rain. Seeps out of the walls and floor and ceiling, dryness fully pervaded now. Our house is big and grand and all that but not well sealed, not round my room anyway, so if the rain doesn't turn back after a day or two, it tends to pick up courage and come on in—into my room. In musty spirit, anyway.

    I had finished the chapter I was reading and I had placed my bookmark where I had left off. I closed the book in my lap, leaned back and closed my eyes. Picturing. Picturing. A moment later He knocked on my door and I went to open it.

    I fumbled with the locks and the bolts and the safety chain and didn't even stop to wonder (I never do) that I was so carefully sealed. He knocked again, louder this time, or was it that I was closer to the door (of course, I didn't know that he was He yet), and told Him to hold His horses. Finally, after a few more hold Your horses and wait ups, I got all the locks undone and I opened up and then looked very long and still at Him and He looked very long and still at me and nothing was said.
    Strange thing when strange things happen: not for a moment did I think it strange. It was simply taking place.

    My first notion was exactly this: Here's God. My second notion was exactly this: No way. Then I wavered back toward the first. He looked so very familiar. Like a Doré Moses, and for just a fraction I thought perhaps this is Moses, no? Standing there, but no stone tablets about him, no frown or fury at dancings around golden calves, no exasperation or suffering (which rules out the Son, too, doesn't it?—though He, the Son, was never a real prospect; my visitor had nothing of "the meek" about Him at all). No, this was more, He was more, you know, of the and the Earth was without form and void variety. Let there be lightish. But not very talkative. Just stood there looking back at me. So finally, "Wanna come in?" I said. "Sure," He said.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUlf Wolf
    Release dateOct 19, 2012
    ISBN9781301060221
    A Larry Comes
    Author

    Ulf Wolf

    Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me. I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest. Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?" And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf." That's how it happened. Scout's honor. Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did. I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems. My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?

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      Book preview

      A Larry Comes - Ulf Wolf

      A Larry Comes

      Ulf Wolf

      Smashwords Edition

      October 2019

      Copyright

      A Larry Comes

      Copyright © 2019 by Wolfstuff

      http://wolfstuff.com

      All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ::

      Contents

      A Larry Comes

      Contribution

      About Author

      Tell me, what good is it to have God visit you if you can’t tell anybody about it? Or, if not God, then somebody looking very much like him, or how I had pictured him. Perhaps, to be safe I should call him god, you know, lower case g.

      No, that won’t do. There’s no escaping it: it was the Almighty all right, our capital G Father-of-the-Son God. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. Let me rephrase that: There is no doubt about it.

      Yes, yes, I know it sounds crazy, but now and then things happen to you, incredible things, thing you cannot explain but that you cannot deny—not to yourself anyway. For they did happen, and you know they did, whether the whole thing sounds crazy or looks crazy or feels crazy or is crazy or not. Took place. Occurred. Yes, sir. So when in truth I did lay eyes on him, did talk to him, did meet him, how can I deny it? I can’t.

      My mistake was sharing it, and perhaps that’s the lesson to draw from all of this: Keep your mouth shut. Especially around close relatives and people in white coats.

      It was a Tuesday, a rainy one. My room had that dampness about it, that musty smell that only ventures out after three days of rain. Seeps out of the walls and floor and ceiling, dryness fully pervaded now. Our house is big and grand and all that but not well sealed, not round my room anyway, so if the rain doesn’t turn back after a day or two, it tends to pick up courage and come on in—into my room. In musty spirit, anyway.

      I had finished the chapter I was reading and I had placed my bookmark where I had left off. I closed the book in my lap, leaned back and closed my eyes. Picturing. Picturing. A moment later He knocked on my door and I went to open it.

      I fumbled with the locks and the bolts and the safety chain and didn’t even stop to wonder (I never do) that I was so carefully sealed. He knocked again, louder this time, or was it that I was closer to the door (of course, I didn’t know that he was He yet), and told Him to hold His horses. Finally, after a few more hold Your horses and wait ups, I got all the locks undone and I opened up and then looked very long and still at Him and He looked very long and still at me and nothing was said.

      Strange thing when strange things happen: not for a moment did I think it strange. It was simply taking place.

      My first notion was exactly this: Here’s God. My second notion was exactly this: No way. Then I wavered back toward the first. He looked so very familiar. Like a Doré Moses, and for just a fraction I thought perhaps this is Moses, no? Standing there, but no stone tablets about him, no frown or fury at dancings around golden calves, no exasperation or suffering (which rules out the Son, too, doesn’t it?—though He, the Son, was never a real prospect; my visitor had nothing of the meek about Him at all). No, this was more, He was more, you know, of the and the Earth was without form and void variety. Let there be lightish. But not very talkative. Just stood there looking back at me. So finally, Want to come in? I said. Sure, He said.

      I held the door open for him, and he, gathering his robe with long, white, exquisitely manicured fingers—almost effeminate but with strength (if that makes sense)—and, carefully stepping over the threshold, looked where He was placing His feet as if He was expecting to step on something alive, carefully didn’t (step on anything alive) and then He was inside my head.

      Before closing the head-door (which I honestly had not known I had until just now, until that knock on it) I took a quick peek outside to see if He had brought anybody else (didn’t want to shut the door in some holy face, you know). But no. No one else. Just the usual outside: my TV-less room, a plate of rice and vegetables, sixty percent consumed, forty percent un-, a glass of un-drunk water, shelves for my books, and upon them: my books, my books, my many, many, many books, each one a little life (or not so little, take Gravity’s Rainbow for example), each a little universe in fact (or not so little, take the Mahabharata—now there’s a universe, or a thousand thousand universes for you), and each one mine, so very mine. Yes, you can believe me or not as you please (it’s a free country), but I had read most of them, front cover to back, and some of them, many of them, more than once.

      There was my stereo. And my compact discs, my many, many, many compact discs, and each one of them a universe too, and each one mine. Yes, indeed, although there were literally thousands of them, I had listened to each one, all the way through, many, many of them more than once.

      And there was my desk, my lamps, my chairs, my pictures on the wall. All in all: my room, my whole room, and nothing but my very God-companion-less room. Hence: He had indeed come alone. But no harm in making sure.

      I closed the door. Heard the latch bolt slide into place with a soft click, and let it go at that (I was toying with the idea of replacing the security chain as well, but if you can’t feel secure in the presence of my Guest, where can you feel secure, is what I asked myself, chain or no?) I turned to face Him.

      I looked again. Could it really be? But, oh yes, it was Him all right, still very much at the top of Jacob’s ladderish. But I didn’t dare ask, you know, just to make doubly, trebly sure. Bad form. He carried the air of someone who was expecting to be known, by me. So, all things considered, lingering remnants of could-it-reallys notwithstanding, we’ll put him down to God, then, once and for all: Gee-oh-dee, God.

      Sit down? I asked.

      Sure, he said, looking around for somewhere to sit. Something alive-less. Found a stool I didn’t know I had in here and scrutinized it for a second or two, judged it safe and sat down.

      And, I began. Meaning to say something pleasant like: And I hope you’ve had a nice trip here, good weather on the way, sorry about the rain here, and so on. But he was ignoring me so stellarly that there was no way I was going to go anywhere beyond those three letters. Definitely the at-the-top-of-Jacob’s-ladder guy, in my house. Should be strange, but wasn’t.

      He looked around. Put his hands in his lap. Left over right. Then right over left. Beautiful fingers, no getting away from that either. Long, slender, strong (surely), well, perfect.

      You are a lucky man, He said, apropos of I had no idea what.

      Yes? I said, tentatively, prepared for anything.

      You like it in here? he said. Well, asked, really, but it was more of a statement than a question. Still, I ventured an answer. Uh, yes. Not one of my more eloquent rejoinders.

      Then he stood up and walked to the edge of the field before he turned around and beckoned me to follow with a perfect come hither with his perfect right hand. I came thither but by the time I had thitherized, He had moved on, obviously wanting me to follow. So into my field we went.

      Let me explain that.

      When I say inside (my head) it’s not really an inside at all (which was why I was surprised to find that it had a door for God to knock on and subsequently enter through). The inside of my head is really an outside. The inside-outside. And it’s a very large outside. It has sky and fields and streams and mountains and color, oh yes, and sounds, and smells, but the senses are a little jumbled. No, not really jumbled, more like merged. No, not really merged, more like seeping into each other. Bleeding. Blending. What I mean is: I can sometimes see the music. I can sometimes hear the color blue, the color red, the color green, all colors. Touch odors. Taste smells. It is a wonderful feeling, actually, if unsettling at times. I’ve have gotten used to it though: fields so green I taste them, grass so alive I hear it breathe. And, of course, my grass knows me very well. In places it grows really high, waist high, and very densely. But knowing I’m coming, it parts softly to let me through. Makes a path. Just like now. It must know God too, for He was still walking ahead of me and the grass parted for Him so eagerly it made a small road, almost.

      We were heading for the Bach Falls.

      Let me explain that.

      Music, at least inside my outside head, comes in many forms. Classical, like Bach or Handel, or Beethoven, comes as water, as rivers, as waves. Can also come as sky, as winter. Or as brush-stroked portraits, alive with counterpoint. Mussorgsky comes to mind—self-taught and daring, until drink claimed and drowned him.

      Jazz comes to me as jungle, grown as wild and fast as Coltrane or Davis or Jarrett can dream it, although Jarrett is more like rain, fragrant and fresh. It also comes like corals, millions of arms all red and white and blue and beige and pink and mauve and moving with the underlying rhythm of the sea, tinkling with cymbals as arms touch, pulsing with the bass, sprouting millions more with Coltrane’s breath to rise up out of the water to cling to the air and insist on a hearing.

      I hear you, I do, and I smile and let them fill me and after that what other joy is there, or can there be? That’s Coltrane the magician for you, splintering time into so many thousand fragments and daring you to track them all. Of course, then he changes pace and mood and you have become a Paris café around midnight and there’s no other option open, you just give in to the slow river of smoke and closeness and so you deliquesce note by note.

      Swing, like Goodman or Ellington or Miller, arrive to me as beautiful disturbances in the air. A whole lot of rhythm with a touch of jungle. And always with a touch of green. Then there’s bebop and then I only think of Charlie Parker who laughed himself to death at one of the Dorsey brothers (I forget which) and he comes at me like a raging cat (yes I mean to say exactly that), his saxophone a weapon.

      While Monk stands alone, cloudlike, dreaming it all with his mysterious smile.

      Folk music still (I think this is Dylan’s fault) pricks my conscience and sweeps at me like dusty plains (which I think is Guthrie’s fault). Baez tends to pour on the conscience thing (for there is always more you can do, you know, about hunger, about injustice, about our planet, about just about anything) and sometimes, I must admit, I alter it all into a summer meadow to simply enjoy the music: no message allowed.

      Joni Mitchell has her own country in my head. She’s indefinable. Un-down-pinnable. Simply wonderful. Everything from river to jungle to rain. Like the hissing of summer lawns. Why she has not drastically altered the world for the better is a question I ponder often. And why hasn’t Dylan? He had its ear. He had the ear of a whole generation. He had his hand on the tiller of the world, but could not steer it. Why is that? I still ponder that question.

      And in this part of my inside-outside world live the brilliant race of poets. All of them live here: Shelley the dreamer, Baudelaire the sulky lover, the drowner in black hair, Akhmatova the beautiful sentinel. Yeats too, and his unearthly touch, Plath and Borges. Explorers all of the outside-outside world, celestial visitors documenting their startling discoveries about the rest of us. Theirs is a country of ethereal associations, their many images blending into little explosions as you read and rejoice and suffer and see and hear and:

      Next door, pop rushes out of vivid speakers and comes at me with dancing feet. As brightly colored as bubble gum just out of the wrapper. Neon. Juke boxes and eyeglasses

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