The deliberation had been deep.

It had pulled me out of the house in Ojai to Bart’s, in anticipation of it.

I’d arrived on the cusp of closing after careening around the city on a chunky e-bike that had become my best friend for the duration of my stay. A black, empty nylon string backpack was flapping from my shoulders the entire time as I whizzed through streets, practicing remembering rules of the road as much as I could recall them for wheeled vehicles in peace, tooling through town on a sleepy Sunday evening as magic hour pinks reflected off the green ring of mountains the enclave is rammed into the center of.

God’s bard made his pick first.

A flying ride or die in my life, one I have fussed with for as long as I can recall when it comes to the this’s and that’s of the expression of my existence. A guardian who knows how I am and fights for his ministerial right of way each and every time, iron sharpening iron.

” Look- you know I Like Emerson too, but you know that’s not enough. You’re going to have to justify why this Emerson collection at this moment. Because I’m the spirit housed in the flesh that’s gonna hafta carry this ‘tome’ down the mountain and onward at the end of this gig-” I muttered mostly aloud, balanced on the turned off roadster like it was a setee on the sidewalk that the ‘open, even after we’re closed, ram yer dollar for your scores in the slot’ shimmering shelves of street-facing dollar books spun around the outer perimeter of.

“Just fucking trust me-” the guardian Angel grimaced.

“I always trust you… I just think this is a little preemptive, selection-wise.” I said as I motioned toward the Writerhead bounty on display.

The Guardian rolled his eyes( yeah. it’s a guy). “Fine. Peruse~”

“…thank you~” I’d grinned, and did just that. I came across a tiny red volume they had two copies of that my fingers would leave and dance back to.

My Guardian stifled a groan. ” I know, I know… but I’m telling you… it’s the Emerson collection-“

“Hmph~” I’d muttered as I flipped the book over in my hand. It was Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. ” You know what this Keys into…”

My Guardian looked far away suddenly, eyes tired. Then he’d tilted his head and locked in on me, going full Beatrice mode in a flash. ” I do…but that’s not for now. Please trust me.”

I had pulled myself out of the silent mind grip and shook it off. Depending on the day I either hate or love when he does that. That day I was in the middle. I went towards the counter with ten minutes to spare, waving him off.

“At least do the thing-” he’d called over my shoulder. A whisper from the curb by the bike that had boomed in my ears.

I sighed. “Fiiiine~” I closed my eyes and randomly flipped open the Emerson collection. What I read ripped my brows off my forehead. I looked back at him, bewildered. He was pleased with himself.

“Now…Try the Balzac riff. I know what you’re drilling in on, but test it.” my Guardian muttered, showing nothing but equanimity. I shook off Emerson grabbing me by the throat and getting all “…Sup~?” with me, shrugged my shoulders like the book jock I was placed on this planet to be and cracked open Dai Sijie.

It… did something, something to be revisited at less pressing times… but wasn’t what I had been expecting it to be due to how it had sung out from the shelves with.

I sighed, turned around, gave a slight curtsy to the wind that had won, paid my dollar and shoved the Emerson book in the black backpack that had given me wings on the way there. It grounded me all the way home. Because it was like a 5lb brick at my back.

---

A lifetime ago, an Emerson essay was the deciding factor in my leaning into staying put in New Orleans for a longer than initially assigned. It got me to accept an offer that had kicked off a voracious and compulsive devouring of books beyond the measure of the realms I was researching into place alongside my AIR I had gestating and gesticulating in my belly grieve-chronically.

Emerson smacks you around like Thomas a Kempis, if you let him. He’s a rowdy writerhead boy with me when he gets full of his druthers and whatnots. I knew how he moves because he’d already made moves on me, had already had his way with me uproariously. & I’d enjoyed him, immensely.

---

But today, I cracked open this book my Angel of the Angels had implored me to cart down the mountain, read the first sentence and something released in my chest.

I looked up at the solemn, still standing, always casually stoic, always around Angel, back at the page… and cried out in relief from something it hadn’t even registered I’d been carrying.

It is very hard to bearhug an Angel…if you are not an angel yourself.

Luckily… I am, and this Angel is used to it, so he just took it like a man lol.

“I told you…this one was for now~” my guardian whispered softly into the crown of my head. “Imagine if you’d had that other one in hand after what you just went through, hitting home. An entirely different, completely false narrative would have been gleaned…that had nothing to do with…all this-” he murmured. “That’s the trick. That’s how they get cha. The set up.”

“I knew that wasn’t you drawing my eyes there-” I whispered. ” I’m not even trying to be there-“

“I know you did. So you waved it off. As you were supposed to. It knew you weren’t either. Perhaps that was where they’d gotten got. Weirdly processing that, for whatever their reasons are. But…that has nothing to do with you. You’ve moved in nothing but love…which was beautiful to see you authentically stand in. You…you did good.”

“Thank you for… seeing it coming,” I murmured as the last of it disintegrated and fell off my chest as I released him from the hug. Bright-eyed.

“You know Emerson’s crazy, man!” I chuckled. “But he hit that nail on the head out of no fucking where-“

“& I know you missed it…but That is a limited edition-from like 1900 or so-“

“Eh. Pretty~ It’s pretty-”

–AB