As the full moon wanes, I celebrate the birthday of my spiritual brother. My logical brother and my sensual brother were born in the spring. Mark and I and our sisters were born in the winter. We all carry the lore of our family, each with their own volume.
The last time the brothers were together was a memorial trip after Dad died. Mark and I alternated between the couch and the floor at Pauls house. The first morning in Oklahoma City I went for coffee at a coffee shop called the Red Cup, and I met a guy who once owned Tampa Red’s guitar. Later that night, David told the story about his friend who claimed that he saw an all-green tractor-trailer driven by god. I’m pretty sure the two were connected. The church bell across the street began ringing at dawn, I swear.
Mark lives simply but exists astrally. After several years in Austin and several more in Taos, he went to New York City for a one-week vacation – that was twenty some years ago. He was in lower Manhattan until last year, when he made the exodus, as so many do, to Brooklyn.
He is a waiter at elegant restaurants, a philosopher of Buddhist and Daoist thought, an actor in a famous movie about Austin street people, and a photographer of the wold’s most serene model, Wanda. He writes from his heart and plays music with his soul. He is a street-tested chai master and is the one who taught me how to drop a pinch of saffron onto the surface of the tea before you take the first sip.
He loves the Grateful Dead and is as fine a pool player as he is a chai master. When he came to visit in the past we had to pry him away from the kids to be able have any time with him at all.
Having Mark in my life ensures me of never feeling commonplace. There will always be this sparking wine waiting to be uncorked before the feast begins, this particular turn of phrase , a simple nod of the head, a reverence that belies all worldly goods, a reading of the dictionary, word by word, as a benediction.