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Static Between Notes

(Drive Time Radio to Divinity: Anna’s Psalm)

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“We are homesick most for the places we have never known.” — Carson McCullers

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Preface

Conceptual Central Conceit:

As a ‘Dirt Under Its Nails’ theology, flash fiction becomes flash theophany in this new weekly series. Through the liminal space in life, the radio defines its gravity as every song takes on a different perspective on Anna’s absence (Laughter to Lament, Grit to Grace, Sin to Salvation), while the narrator is backed up on the Road to Heaven.

Alternating music per chapter, the piece remains organic through its themes, pulse, pace, and tenor — a marriage of music theory and theological theophany. So tune in, we are listening for your song requests where your subscription has been bought and paid for. Welcome to Anna’s Psalm.

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Indian Summer

“What happened to you, Anna? What are you missing that you couldn’t hold on a little longer? You were bent, yes, but not fully broken. You had faith where most recede into the shadows. What couldn’t you endure?”

The haunting effects of a mental breakdown doesn’t arrive with the clamor of commerce, or the siren call of street hustlers pedaling both vice and virtue for a quick buck… “Move already, the light is green, asshole!”

As the sun beaded on the windshield, magnifying the sweltering September heat, the Indian Summer could not end soon enough. Whether weather-related or a divine act, the radio faded in and out, alternating between a ghostly crackle of static and music, as every honk was a jagged reminder of a world that hadn't stopped. The passenger seat felt heavy with the weight of someone who was no longer there.

’Jesus, take the wheel. Take it from my hands…’

No, the trappings of psychological unrest do not show up at your door as the cracked-out, bipolar guy from the fifteenth floor with his members in one hand, and a tattered soul in the other. With every drug-fueled knock, he is attempting to drown within the immediacy of want and whim with the next-door neighbor.

Hell, it doesn’t even kick in the door to your subsidized apartment at three in the morning as an ill-timed coke bust. No, it doesn’t afford you such sensory-based physicality, forcing adrenaline to replace the languishing depression naps. No, as a methodical jazz solo, it hits you with the disquieting silence between the everyday notes.

“Prick, can’t you hear? Move your damn car. Some of us have shit to do!”

This is where the true theory lies — a song within a psalm where the lived experience is the theophanic evolution of Grace, whether we are conscious of it or not. But for some, and I mean the rare few, this isn’t the background music of their life. Especially not my Anna.

'Cause I can't do this on my own

I'm letting go…’

“Why did you do it like that? You could have called, texted, or done something. Dammit, girl, why weren’t you stronger… You didn’t have to do this!”

When a person breaks, as a hard-won realization, there are no explanations, just static from a flatscreen television due to a disconnected WiFi service, as the overdue bills hang on the refrigerator where family pictures should have been. No, it comes as background noise…

“Buddy, if you don’t start moving, I’m going to come up there and beat a new kind of religion into you. Nice bumper sticker… Jesus saves? Save this!”

‘So give me one more chance

Save me from this road I'm on

Jesus, take the wheel.’

Growing up in a Roman Catholic family, there was no room for static. Where form had to meet function as a higher doctrine, her life mimicked a regimented routine of spirituality, scholarship, and community service. Through this lens, dealing with neurological idiosyncrasies was both a blessing and a burden, salvation and original sin.

Her family was well-intentioned enough, I guess. But her parents were emotionally detached, replacing the “I am proud of yous” with corrective wisdom. It was their way… Perhaps interspersed autocorrects for a life that otherwise had to evolve organically through hard-earned truths and a level of faith that was lived in rather than manufactured.

In Anna’s world, Jesus was more than an ironic dashboard bobble head until he wasn’t. When religious nurture was cosmically weighed against the neurological nature, the iron rod revelation was that God’s composition came with a discordant note.

“Mister, excuse me, mister. Hey, you need your windshield cleaned? Traffic is backed up for miles, so you have time. I’ll do it for seven dollars. I can wash other things too, but that will cost you considerably more. Hey! Mister, excuse me, mister… Asshole!”

’Jesus, take the wheel…’

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“Music is the space between the notes.” — Claude Debussy

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