Deborah and Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician

Deborah wasn’t looking
when the tear in time/space first appeared
But it got her attention before too long
It sounded like the surf at Manitoba
And Smelled like . . . that old hippie smell
Patchouli?
Faint . . . not too strong

Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
Stepped into the middle of the room
But from her point of view
He looked like he was sliding in sideways
And there he was

Not a terribly remarkable man
Except for the eyes
He had Pablo Neruda’s eyes
Eye the color of an azure sea

And he looked confozeled
Pulled a small black
pocket sized journal
From his rear pocket
and thumbed through the pages . . .

He seemed to find something
“You are Deborah?”
‘Well . . . Yes . . .’
“Oh good
So this is what the 21st century will look like . . .”
‘Well, not all of it
We’re just getting started’

He laughs and it is the laugh
Of an uncle that she hasn’t seen in years
And its good
It’s just a good laugh

He pulls a small rubber ball out of his front pocket
And sets it to bouncing on the floor
Which is no small trick on the thick carpet
“I am Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
At your service . . .” complete with exaggerated bow
The ball is orbiting them both
She wonders what would happen
if she tried to step through
“I have come as a favor
To a very old and dear friend”

Deborah notices that the room is now silent
‘How does this work?’
“You know those noise cancellation headphones
Same thing
Except it works on the tidal principle
Of Cyto Chaotics
I can remove it if you like . . .”
‘No
Its fine . . .’

And it was
It was a good feeling
Like the noise of the whole world
Had somehow been pushed to a place
outside the tiny sphere
“If I may come to the point
My Lady has requested that I give you a break
Though I am not certain I fully appreciate
Why she’d want you broken . . .”
And Deborah laughed . . .
It got just a bit hysterical toward the end

He reached to some other place
And brought forth the most perfect Pina Colada
She ever seen
And while it was the middle of the day . . .
It tasted like that first vacation
To the Bahamas . . .

Manjag pulled a small ukulele and a straw hat
Out of the air and proceeded to yodel
the worst rendition of Margaretville
Ever
And Deborah laughed . . .
‘Mister . . . ?’
“Yes dear?”
‘Why are you here?’
“A dear kind Lady
In whose service I am proud
Has asked that I come to this place . . .”
‘But excuse me . . . Mister Mandrake . . .’
“Manjag . . .”
‘Manjag . . . who is this Lady?’
Manjag Laughed

“She is the Lady
The Mother of all mothers
and you stand in her favor . . .
I see you are confused . . .”
And then he began to read from his little book
She soon understood that it was a list of activities
Her activities . . .
How did he know?
“ . . . And today you made pancakes”
‘But
So what?’
“Dear mother of this family
This shining example of a family
Complete with toil and trouble and strife
Complete with challenges and debts
Dear mother of this family
You have sacrificed yourself . . .”
Deborah looks down
‘But I don’t deserve the credit . . .’
“Dear mother
I will not bore you with visions
Of what this family would be without you
But I can tell you
You are the backbone of this family . . .
This has not gone without notice . . .”

‘What?’
He looks at his wrist
But there I no watch
“Time’s about up . . .
Although technically time has slowed outside
Feeling rested?”
Why yes
Yes she was
‘Manjag . . . what’s this all about?’
“It’s about you for a change Mam”
And his hand caught the ball . . .

The whole world rushed back in on her
But didn’t feel quite so heavy as before . . .
He bowed like he had done a magic trick
He handed her the ball
“When you need a break
bounce the ball . . .”

And poof
He was gone

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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