Last night, boys, was a beauty.  I was alone on the field, between twilight and dusk, sporting bare feet, enjoying the craggy, creep show lines in a tree.  A sliver of light remained from the day.  The sky was raven blue and getting deeper.  Over there it was day, above me, the night.

Playing in my in mind: “The Way You Looked Tonight”, as read by Tony Bennett.

I took a few photos of the creepy tree with the craggy lines.  I’m not good with trees so I can’t tell you its name.  It wasn’t a typical looking tree.  I decided I would name it Spooky.  The craggy lines looked spooky, like a tree on Halloween.  Except of course it wasn’t raining or windy and there were no bats fluttering about and no witches cruising on brooms.

While the camera was doing its thing (each exposure was between six and fifteen minutes.  I’m one of those old boys who never went digital.  I stayed with my old Nikon F2 which I had mounted on a tripod and outfitted with a 16 mm Nikkor lens set at 2.8) I looked to the stars and wished I would see one fall.  Cause my being alone at that moment called up a wishing well full of wishes of Jazz Love, Tasha, and Tessa, gracefully, willowy wandering into mind.  No stars did fall so scratch one wish book full of lovely ladies/mega past.  I was also wishing I would see a U.F.O. because my friend lent me a documentary she taped off A&E about real life U.F.O. stories.  Stories about a pilot, back in the mid 40’s, flying his plane above the mountains in Washington and he saw spooky saucer shapes skipping by.  Then last week, “Roswell”, was on CBC and it showed how some aliens were found in some wreckage in the ranch lands of New Mexico, and how one was even breathing and walking around and generally messing about in his/her alien way.

So I watched the stars for about two hours and wondered why I never got to see a U.F.O., especially when I spent so much time on the open country and in the wilderness, running around out there at night.  Well I didn’t see a U.F.O. just like I never won the lottery.  So around midnight I packed up my gear, bid the old Spookster good evening, and came home, wondering why the Ojibway people never had any alien stories in their folklore, myths, legends, prophecies, or general daily hubbub ancient Ojibwe light conversation.

I arrived home and went straight to the upstairs and bed.  The yard lights were out and the room was dark.  Usually before bed, I calm down and pray with Chopin’s “Berceuse in D Flat, op. 57”, “Lullaby, Nocturne in E Flat Major”, “Prelude in D Flat Major”, and Debussy’s “Suite Bergamasque, Clair de lune”, in that order, and imagine flying away with Brancusi’s “Bird In Space”, to assist in flying me away to sleep and the mighty dreamlandscape, while the heat burns down the last bits of sage I have in a shell a little lady gave me.  Last night though, I forgot the music and the sage in the city and had to rely on the whippoorwill living in the trees in the east yard.  Dreams come calling…

I was driving down the government road from Providence Bay to Tehkummah, thinking yeah, I like stopping to smell the flowers, especially lilac and wild roses.  I like the sunrise, the sunset, the moon rise and the moon set.  I like the acoustic guitar, water colours, slow pow wow dancing, swimming out beyond the confines of the cove and into the deep water, swimming with the big fish and the rain.  I’ve designed my own tattoos, given away strawberries, walked a mile or two to get to the summer time evening carnival.  I like smoking the odd American brand cigarette.  I like drinking alone.  I love classical and jazz music.  And I was listening to the CBC and a cool story they had about this jazz trumpet player who was big in the seventies but was also a junkie and a bit of a nut bar, going off the deep end in his druggie day to day struggle.  His name was Chet Baker and his story was really quite bizarre, a jazz musician being such a torrid junkie.  I thought that kind of story was reserved for rock and roll stars.  Well I guess I was wrong about that!  The life story was entertaining and the music was night music, slow and groovy.  They had just played Chet’s reading of “I Fall In Love Too Easily”.

The road was lined with rabbits and road signs.

For no special reason I looked up and saw a star in the early evening sky, ahead of me, going my way.  It was bright like Venus but it appeared to be a lot closer than a hundred gazillion light years away.  This looked like it might be a few minutes away.  And it was getting closer.  I sped the car up to forty kilometers an hour, looked up and there it was, getting closer.  So I pulled over to get out and take a look.  It was up there alright.  A speck of light in the sky, like a star, only coming down, getting closer; making no sound.  I became very frightened.  I rattled up and down and started to shake.  I looked up and down the government road and no one was coming in either direction.  I looked back up and there it was just above the tree tops and I felt a fear like, well, I don’t know what it was, but the next thing I know I’m the car, behind the wheel and cruising east bound on the trusty and barren government road.  So I go home by way of Snowville and Sandfield.  And go up the stairs, into my room and into bed, to sleep.

And in sleep I’m dreaming I’m being beamed up this white ray of light, into a brighter white light that is above me.

Next thing I know I’m in a dark, board room like place and in the company of a bunch of grey waxy looking dudes with huge black, oval shaped eyes.  They had no lips, just this line where their mouths could have been.  Tiny holes where their nostrils might be.  Spooky.  But not wildly horrifying or terrifically out of this world…

Because.  I’m talking to them about Chet Baker, the jazz trumpet player who died in the late 80’s from being a junkie, getting high and getting too close to open hotel room windows.  And they’re sitting around listening to me tell this story.  Casually too, some of them are leaning forward with their grey waxy elbows on the table, hands together under their grey waxy chins.  Others are favouring one side and have their grey waxy elbows on an arm of their big fancy board room like chairs.  The room is dark except for one big light above the table, casting shadows in all directions.  Every now and again a servitor alien comes in with a tray bearing assorted cigars and cigarettes, offering these main guys a smoke and a light, or a glass of something exotic looking.  And I’m going on like a crazed salesman trying to sell them some bullshit thing we all know they don’t need, about Chet Baker and how they really should hear him play and I ask them to tune in the CBC because he’s on right now.

One of the aliens gives me the nod and the next thing I know is the twelve of us, me and the eleven aliens, are sitting in box seats at the Montreal Jazz Festival back in 1986!  It’s closing in on eleven p.m. and Chet is there with his trumpet and his piano player, Paul, he’s there too.  Paul starts a tune and plays a light intro and Chet just stands there like a zombie, looking out over the audience, his trumpet up, almost ready to play.

Only he doesn’t.

So Paul tries another song and plays a light intro.  We all focus on Chet and still he just stands there and looks out over the audience.  No jazz coming from him!  Well by this time the crowd is getting up tight and the aliens dudes I’m sitting with all lean forward in their seats and look at me as if to say:  Have you gone mad?

Paul doesn’t give up.  He tries a third song and still no trumpet sounds.  So they walk off stage and the crowd is booing and asking for their money back and it really isn’t such a hotski Montreal Jazz Festival after all.  So the aliens all stand up to leave and I’m still in my seat saying, “Wait a second, maybe they’re just going back to double check their set list, maybe they’ll be right back out.”

I think the boss man alien was not impressed.  He just shook his big grey waxy head, no.  Next thing I know we’re back in the ship and near a small doorway.  We were cruising over a body of water, had to be Lake Mindemoya because I could see a shape like Treasure Island down there.  I was getting the boot and the situation was not good.  All the while I’m still going on about Chet and how it wasn’t my fault that he couldn’t play.  It was the smack, the dope, the junk or maybe even the flight over from Europe that afternoon, and the man was maxed out yes?

The alien dudes weren’t listening.  The boss man nodded to a big ass alien security looking guy who put his other worldly foot to my ass and out I went, falling end over end, accelerating and I’m thinking that’s it, I’m doing to drown tonight!  I see the water surface coming up fast and sproing!  I’m in my own bed in the room up the stairs.  I sat bolt upright waggling like a freshly sprung jack in the box, eyes bugging out, wondering what the hell is going on?!!  And really, I was back in my bed, back home at my parent’s house, back in Mindemoya, on planet Earth.  I’d come to in real time.