Authors, Writers, Publishers, and Book Readers
Written By: R.F.Husnik
I’m guessing it was in a reel world of analog tape recorders that my friend F. John Surells brought to life the first installment of the saga of the woman outside the patio glass. But, although my rendition of this saga will be written rather than verbal, in my mind today I can see both John and that woman. And, yes, I can see her there, appearing to both John and his wife Renni. And, then days later I can see John there, in front of a microphone, relating his version of that apparition’s appearance, as well as his concern about the future of America – an America which, if current trends remain unchanged, will be a Hispanic nation somewhere around the year 2050.
But in a real world of facts and reminiscences, I can only speculate about why certain certainties were, and currently still are actual. And I likewise can only guess why, in the past those certainties were dealt with as they were, and why today they continue to be dealt with as they are.
And I wonder if my installment of this saga, written at the behest of John’s wife Renni Maes Surells, will ever see the light of day, or will be suppressed somewhat as John’s initial installment of this story was. But here’s the bottom line: Do those border crossers care about anyone or anything other than themselves? What are they doing to the American nation? And, just because certain individuals may be abidingly liberal or conservative, does that mean they’re automatically talented, sincere, or right or wrong?
But then The Great Equalizer seems to appear. Is she (or he) real? And she (or he) seems to say “I remember those days – long ago. And I won’t forget the prognosis concerning the need of a wife to support one. Nor will I forget the arguing, the alcoholism, and the apparent minor mental illness which led to all types of false comedy and hurtful communication. And I’ll always remember the phony poorness, and the deteriorating buildings, cars, and lifestyles. And for as long as mortal breath is mine, I’ll wonder what God thought, and still thinks about all I’ve known.”
But then The Great Planner seems to appear. Is he (or she) real? And he (or she) seems to say “I want all Americans to help me formulate a plan for America’s future. It’s beginning to look as though the nation may have a Hispanic majority somewhere around the mid-point of the twenty first century. And Americans, if not for your own safety, then at least for the well being of your heirs, I’d suggest you begin to prepare for the day that the U.S.A. may become a Hispanic nation. But I don’t know how those Americans who’ve had great crimes committed either against themselves or their loved ones by foreigners living illegally inside the U.S. will ever be able to accept the heartbreak and loss that they’ve been forced to experience because their nation either can’t, or doesn’t want to keep illegal aliens outside its borders.”
But as I said, I’m writing this on behalf of my friend Renni Maes Surells. She’s one half of a very special recently married couple; and I must say, that to have been able to come to know the two of them, John and Renni, has been one of the greatest blessings ever bestowed upon me. And yet, in all fairness, I must also state the same for another couple, Charles Platt (Corzer) and his Parisian counterpart Valerie Danns, though the latter two aren’t the focus of this piece.
Renni asked me to write this in her stead. And I guess she felt this necessary transposition of actual facts to written words couldn’t be satisfactorily accomplished by her. And yet, when she called me, and told me via telephone what had befallen she and John, I said this to her: “Renni, if you can verbalize what occurred, then you can surely transpose it in written form.”
“Oh sure, I could simply state what happened,” she said. “But I want someone with a fair literary talent to expand upon those basic occurrences. I want someone to tell people what they may mean, and why they perhaps happened.”
“Why doesn’t John write about them then?” I asked.
“Our city’s leader, Ralph Hawk, wants John to expound upon the conversation he (John) and I were having when those events began to occur. But he wants me to relate the actual events, and what they may symbolize. And he, (Ralph) said that John’s piece should be a prose piece (thus it’s title Outside Woman Prosaic) which should speak about a conversation in a conversational tone. But he wanted my second installment of what he considered to be the same literary effort to be a more eloquent piece which would speak of significance and symbolism; and thus the title (Outside Woman Poetic). But I told him (Ralph) that I’d ask you to write this piece on my behalf. And Ralph said he’d have no problem with that, should I be able to persuade you to undertake the task” replied Renni.
Thus, I, R.F. Husnik, shall now submit “my take” concerning the events related to me by Renni. But I’ll do so in prose rather than poetry, and I’ll hope the prose style I’ll utilize here will be worthy of the poetic headline which this piece carries through the wish of Ralph Hawk. Oh, and yes, I’ll write this in humility. And I’ll write this in the hope that it may encourage various mortals to attempt to live out their lives where God intended them to – in their own native lands.
And as is often the case when I attempt to write pieces such as this one, i.e. disclosures of actual events which most likely have significance which exceeds their basic occurrences, I feel very scared and alienated then, and yet obligated as well to announce what seems to be the rationale of that significance, and also what perhaps should be done in response to it. And often in these situations, I feel as a rider on that certain carnival ride which sweeps one quickly inward, but then thrusts one swiftly outward, and all the while moving in a circular motion. And, whether or not I do possess some degree of written word capability, at times such as this I find my usage of that supposed trait to be somewhat non-inspired. And that’s even despite the fact that some of my friends have been compared, and wrongfully I’d suspect, to certain literary champions of bygone days. But I’m not a braggart. And if I am somewhat egotistical, I’m only slightly so – I hope!
And thus, I’ll ask you to join me now. Another day is almost over. It has less than an hour remaining. And, at this moment, when many have already given up their ghosts to slumber, I’m sitting alone before the proverbial patio glass, attempting to visualize what Renni and John apparently saw that night. And now, in what I suspect is a mind’s suspension of reality, I see her approach me! And, as the Red Sea was once parted long ago, so now has a corridor of light appeared between two sections of non-light. And I see a woman there, walking in that created light. And I immediately imagine she’s the same lady who had long ago appeared to innocents at such places as Guadalupe, Lourdes, Fatima, and Champion.
So I say to her “Mother of Christ, show me something which time’s recorders will state with certainty actually occurred on the life stage of any verified day.”
And she answers “I’m not the Lord’s mother, but rather a girl from Alabama who, along with my famous husband, were once symbols of status in that decade of roaring which you and others will now soon experience the second installment of.”
“I want you and Scott to pray for us from that domain where the two of you now surely exist along with the lady I mistook you for” I said.
“Oh God!” she replied. “What’s really of the most importance during the life of any mortal?”
“Tell me what it is” I said.
And the lady began then to answer her own question. “It’s the preparation, during their mortal years, which all humans should make for the events which occur when they pass over from the temporal to the eternal. And more specifically, it’s preparation for the decision, made by eternity’s judges, who themselves are led by the Son of Man, which concerns one’s abode forever.”
And I asked in return “But as an advocate from heaven, do you feel you have any special, or what may to me be unknown insights concerning this event?”
“Only this” answered that artist’s wife, and artist in her own right, “In these days of socialism and supposed helping of everyone by everyone else, it might proffer many to remember that on that day of judgement they’ll stand alone before God’s Son and His judges. And on that day there’ll be no one there to speak for or against one.”
“There’ll be no loved ones, no hated ones, no energetic ones, no lazy ones, no minority or majority ones despite or because of their ethnicity or skin color, no artists of any sort of creative venue, no liberals, no conservatives, no communists, socialists, capitalists, or fascists, and no adherents to, or non-believers in any religion, organized or not. No, the individual will stand alone there, and plead his or her case alone there; and my wish for him or her is that the court of finality then sends him or her here to join us and our Masters, and not there to join the very essence of evil.”
Oh, and then suddenly the lady in the glass was gone! And the blackness of night filled in again what for a brief interval had been the stage of a great lady from a century ago. And my initial reaction then was that I feared even more then than I usually do what the probable outcome of any of my written disclosures would be. “My God”! many would no doubt say. “The arrogance and condescension of that man! To dare to compare any friend he’s known to one of history’s greatest authors simply because his friend’s name also begins with F in abbreviation”!
Nonetheless, despite what anyone may say, and despite the possibility of my or anyone else’s supposed arrogance and/or condescension, I’ll say this: Art comes to mortals through many changes. And thus the creative mind learns quickly of alterations. And, in the case of writers, the artful mind realizes that many rewrites loom on the horizon. And, what may seem to be true, may not always be so, and what may seem to be false, may often be true.
And therefore, once more for the people whose ways are dying, I’ll relate that I don’t believe myself to be a fool, though I’ve sometimes been foolish. And I know that sometimes, in the treachery of mind manipulations, sleep’s forced loss of control may lead one to fear-filled plots such as the one which featured a student who hadn’t yet attended a single meeting of a class for which he or she now soon would face exams of finality.
And then there was the one which concerned an actor who hadn’t yet, only hours before his play was to begin, begun to learn the lines he was to say in that play. And what about the man or woman who, alone in the desperation of alienation, and minus the rationality which always, at every second, provides one with the discernment of right from wrong, committed a gruesome act for which he or she was then led away to face the wrath of courts which, let’s be honest, usually favor such mortals as are following a lifestyle leaning toward their left.
So, if you can see that man there on the inside, then remember that today he’s learned that artists from the past, whom we’ve loved, and tried to emulate in both reality and imagination, watch over us as we near the onset of the twenty first century’s version of roaring twenties. And some of us will now try to revive the flattery and indulgence of a hundred years ago. And some of us will now think back to America as it was at the end of the world’s first great war; and then we’ll say “Be careful America. Your lax induction of foreigners into your territory threatens what had been your way of life. And someday, if evil befalls your sons and daughters, who will care for them as you apparently are trying to care for others today, even when those others harm or kill you?