Spell My Name

For Every Song, a Story:
Spell My Name
For Zachary

I was talking to my brother Mark about the trials of his autistic son Zachary. Autism literally means self-ism. All trapped up. Signals scrambled, a social-emotional cripple. Trinity's image, all that high stuff... and here he is, sentenced to solitary in the emotional gulag by some damn disease he never deserved.

'He needs an Annie Sullivan,' I said.

'Yeah,' he said.

Then, silence. Just a couple of brothers and the leaden tension of impossible desire in an f'd up world.

Some prayers, I swear, it feels callous and criminal just saying them. There's no justice that way. They gotta be sung. It takes time, forming cries like these, and this one was no different. Was it months? Years? Anyway, it doesn't matter.

We don't write em, they're just there, waiting for a voice to give em an honest to God hearing and telling. Gritty, not pretty... this is the blues, not Broadway. Needing a worthy voice, never mine, but become mine, because its time has come and the right singer hasn't showed.

I remember, as a child, this TV special on Helen Keller.  That scene at the well, Miss Sullivan taking that small hand, making her understand...W-A-T-E-R. Brilliant. Do yourself a favor, read that scene again. The autobiography is .99 on Kindle. Powerful, magical stuff.

To get a little into that terrifying silent darkness of that little girl. How? Why? Who knows...that"s the mystery, that's the muse.  Pecking out those prison shell walls, into the clear light of day and that tender touch of the other. You can't get that ecstasy without that agony. Cruel but true. It's Helen's story, not mine. Zachary"s story, not mine.

Or is it?

Oh for an Annie Sullivan.