A Night With Yoric

by

Klaus J. Gerken

III_I

Acts

(1972)

Part I

The season has plummeted upon us like
a pack of blazing meteors. With the first
spasmodic scraps of spring air venting out
the harsh and mordant breath of winter,
taking with it the piles of ugly gray black
snow shoved up in dirty heaps along the sides 
of streets and empty parking lots. Today,
we had expected showers, as had been forecast;
but instead an unexpected south wind brought
a rash of warm and heavenly days with the
vibrant sun shimmering down across the surging
water-rapids of this bold resurgent river, upon 
which banks, near, aside, above, a small, shaded
cave, discovered a year before, we sit drinking
clear cool wine from a large jug, basking in 
the sunlight like so many seals upon an 
isolated Labradorean beach.

The wake of a motorboat shatters the
calm with its loud audacious roar. Water
splashed in great qualms against the rock,
just as Gerry disappears around the corner
of the cliff on his way into the cave. "Bastard!"
he shouts in anger at the operator, waving his
fist in unabated anger, "Look at what the fucker did
to my jeans! Christ!" Then turning, peeking 
around the corner, "Hand me the wine, will you
Carl?"

From where we were seated it was virtually
impossible to see where the cave could be
situated. I recall when first Gerry told us
of its existence, we were so excited that
we decided to make a picnic out of the 
excursion to find it, buying wine and food. 
How marvelous it was - a day much like this day,
with its effulgence of sun and fugitive happiness -
fugitive? why should I describe happiness
by such a term? because we have to capture
it - those rare and isolated moments of 
semi-consciousness. Something like being cast 
in a slow motion film. But I digress... that day 
Gerry and a friend of his, Eric, went ahead of us 
and as a joke hid in the cave. 

When we came to the spot where we are now, we  
could not see where they had gotten to. I called 
out. Wendy called out. But no answer  came. We 
were climbing the cliff above us before they 
finally revealed themselves and called us down 
before we broke our necks. That is how hidden the 
cave is, "even from the eye of god" as Eric said. 
Well, perhaps he is right, for the sun enters it 
only on the late afternoon, and even then only 
for a brief moment. Yet "cursed" by god or not,
to dwell like Phat, in perpetual darkness,
it is truly marvelous the way nature has seen
to hide it from the impoverished and ravaged
cry of society, tucked away into a corner
like this. And that is very good. And we are still
relatively certain that we are the only ones who
are aware of its existence. *We* of course
are Cathy, Gerry. Donna, Danny and myself.

There are a few others to join us, but
it seems unlikely they will get here when the said,
so for now we are alone, soaking up the cordial
atmosphere and let our minds digress slowly with the wind.
   "OK" O answer Gerry, handing down the heavy jug,
with one foot precariously balanced on a three inch 
ledge a foot or so above the waterline. 
   "Hope I don't fall in," mumbling to myself in lo
and insecure tones.
   "Well if you do fall," came the bold sarcastic reply,
"just save the jug."
   "Thanks a lot; I'll do my best."
   "Please do, thanks." He takes the jug and vanishes.

   Every now and then everything ceases to be real and
a perfect state of bliss ensues. As now. A moment of 
deep silence. These are not awkward moments, like so many
are. But clear and conscious moments where the aura that
envelops people and gives us personal vibrations - vibrations
of understanding, of bondship, as you like - becomes
increasingly conscious that they send a chill up your spine.
Moments where