M is for Myg

Dear Sun,

Sometimes I think it strange that I continue to write to you — or even that we have corresponded at all. Here I am, a hermaphrodite DJ in Second Life, you, a giant ball of fire 93 million miles away. You are 4.5 billion years old, and the temperature at your core reaches 13 million degrees Kelvin. In the morning, your rays stream through the slats on my venetian blinds and illuminate the little constellation of dust floating above the glass of water on my bedside table.

I saw you yesterday — warm and bright in the afternoon sky. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you. The winter here is gray and overcast. (Remember what I told you about the atmosphere here — all nitrogen and oxygen!!) Did you see me? I know you can barely make out my little speck of a home, but I jumped and waved anyway.

O Sun, here’s the reason for my writing: did you know that some days — today, for example, I have trouble going on? The simplest things seem a struggle — and thus of course they are a struggle. I feel like some hero of classical myth beset by enemies, confounded by obstacles — like Dorothy in the field of poppies, for example:

They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.

But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.

“We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,” he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.

“What shall we do?” asked the Tin Woodman.

“If we leave her here she will die,” said the Lion. “The smell of the flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open, and the dog is asleep already.”

It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not troubled by the scent of the flowers.

“Run fast,” said the Scarecrow to the Lion, “and get out of this deadly flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us, but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried.”

So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go. In a moment he was out of sight.

“Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her,” said the Scarecrow. So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy’s lap, and then they made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.

The poppies are inside me, of course, a vast, lush and colorful field rooted deep in the soil of me. My internal Tin Woodman and Scarecrow are there too, most of the time, to carry the Dorothy of me through to the next clearing, but always the lion of me is left behind. He runs, but the flimsy poppies always get him.

Do you remember, Sun, how the lion is saved? The Tin Woodman saves the life of the queen of the field mice by beheading a wildcat — and so her squeaky little subjects, tens of thousands of them, express their gratitude by pulling the lion out of the field on a wagon that the Woodman fashions from nearby trees. Each of them brings a bit of string with which to make a rope.

O Sun, where are the field mice of me? Today, did my Tin Woodman miss and chop off his own head instead of the wildcat’s? (Do you remember that the Woodman beheaded himself once? It was the last of him, I think, to be chopped off and replaced with tin.) Without them, my lion slumbers on to death!

Sometimes, without the mice, a certain music will rouse the lion, for I am Esteban Moody, purveyor of the true funk. Praise the lion with the sound of the trumpet: praise him with the psaltery and harp! Praise him with the timbrel and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and organs! Praise him upon the loud cymbals: praise him upon the high sounding cymbals!

But today the music is not working, so I write to ask your help. O Sun, help me to open the heavy lids of the cowardly beast! I know a piece of your great fire burns inside him. Will you make it burn bright and and hot enough to wake him? In the distance I can see the tall turrets of the Emerald City, but without my lion I am helpless.

Love,

Esteban

Funk me, it’s Friday! | 14 March 2008: play or right-click here to download.
Set list:

The Deacons: Sock It To Me Part I
The Deacons: Sock It To Me Part II
G.R.I.T.S.: Jan Jan
Groove Armada: I See You Baby (Fatboy Slim Mix)
Run-D.M.C.: Sucker MC’s
Cookin On 3 Burners feat. Kylie Auldist: Settle The Score
James Brown: Hot (I Need To Be Loved, Loved, Loved, Loved)
Jackie Moore: Singing Funky Music Turns Me On
The Jaggerz: Born Poor
Ides of Time: K-Car for Sale
Bonnie Pointer: Free Me From My Freedom/Tie Me to a Tree (Handcuff Me)
Laura Lee: Women’s Love Rights
Georgie Fame: Beware of Dog
Jackie Mittoo: Ghetto Organ
The Lions: Givin Up Food For Jah
Johnny Hammond: It’s Too Late
Jackie Wilson: You Left the Fire Burning
The North Philadelphia Juniors: I Know Jesus Is Calling
Brenda Holloway: Every Little Bit Hurts

This entry was posted on Monday, March 17th, 2008 at 7:19 pm and is filed under Esteban, Real Life, estebanpodcast.