Communion by Viggo Mortensen

Check out more of his art and poetry @ViggoArt!

1.
we've left shore somehow
become the friends
of early theory
close enough to speak
of desire and pain of absence
of mistakes we'd make
given the chance.

each smile returned
makes harder avoiding
dreams that see us
lying in the early evening
curtain shadows, skin
safe against skin.
bloom of compassion
respect for moments
eyes lock turns
forever into one more
veil that falls away.

2.
this after seeing you
last night, first time
smelling you with
permission: shoulders to
wonder openly at
as carefully kissed
as those arms
waited impossibly on.
they've held me now
and your breath
down my back
sent away the night air
that had me shaking
in the unlit anglican
doorway.

3.
are we ruined for
finding our faces fit
and want to know more
about morning? is
friendship cancelled
if we can't call
each other anymore
in amnesia, invite
ourselves to last glances
under suspicious clocks
telling us when we've
had enough?

4.
your steady hands
cradling my grateful
skull: were you taking
in my face to
save an image
you've rarely allowed
yourself after leaving
that cold alcove?
am i a photograph
you gaze at in
moments of weakness?

you ordered me
off my knees
into your arms.
wasn't to beg
that i knelt; only
to see you once
from below.

tried to say something
that filled my mouth
and longed to rest
in your ear.
don't dare write
it down for fear it'll
become words, just

words.

The Nobodies, by Eduardo Galleano

Thank you, Mr. Galleano.  You are missed.

"We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine." --Eduardo Galleano

The Nobodies

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping
poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on
them---will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn't rain down
yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn't even fall in a
fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their
left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right
foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the
no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life,
screwed every which way.

Who are not, but could be.
Who don't speak languages, but dialects.
Who don't have religions, but superstitions.
Who don't create art, but handicrafts.
Who don't have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police
blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.”

― Eduardo Galeano, Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel, by Sherman Alexie

Another long-time favorite....

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

BY SHERMAN ALEXIE

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.

Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably

from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender

and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.

If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.

When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:

brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.

Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love

Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.

White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man

unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.

Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions

if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry

an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male

then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside

a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman

can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.

There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender

not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,

all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Perhaps the World Ends Here, by Joy Harjo

Perhaps the World Ends Here

BY JOY HARJO

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Letter on the Road, by Pablo Neruda

LETTER ON THE ROAD

by Pablo Neruda

- translated by Donald D. Walsh

Farewell, but you will be
with me, you will go within
a drop of blood circulating in my veins
or outside, a kiss that burns my face
or a belt of fire at my waist.
My sweet, accept
this great love that came out of my life
and that in you found no territory
like the explorer lost
in the isles of bread and honey.
I found you after
the storm,
the rain washed the air
and in the water
your sweet feel gleamed like fishes.

Adored one, I am off to my fighting.

I shall scratch the earth to make you a cave
and there your Captain
will wait for you with flowers in the bed.
Think no more, my sweet,
about the anguish
that went on between us
like a bolt of phosphorous
leaving us perhaps its burning.
Peace arrived too because I return
to my land to fight,
and as I have a whole heart
with the share of blood that you gave me
forever,
and as
I have
my hands filled with your naked being,
look at me,
look at me,
look at me across the sea, for I go radiant,
look at me across the night through which I sail,
and sea and night are those eyes of yours.
I have not left you when I go away.
Now I am going to tell you:
my land will be yours,
I am going to conquer it,
not jut to give it to you,
but for everyone,
for all my people.
The thief will come out of his tower some day.
And the invader will be expelled.
All the fruits of life
will grow in my hands
accustomed once to powder.
And I shall know how to touch the new flowers gently
because you taught me tenderness.
My sweet, adored one,
you will come with me to fight face to face
because your kisses live in my heart
like red banners,
and if I fall, not only
will earth cover me
but also this great love that you brought me
and that lived circulating in my blood.
You will come with me,
at that hour I wait for you,
at that hour and at every hour,
at every hour I wait for you.
And when the sadness that I hate comes
to knock at your door,
tell her that I am waiting for you
and when loneliness wants you to change
the ring in which my name is written,
tell loneliness to talk with me,
that I had to go away
because I am a soldier,
and that there where I am,
under rain or under
fire,
my love, I wait for you.
I wait for you in the harshest desert
and next to the flowering lemon tree,
in every place where there is life,
where spring is being born,
my love, I wait for you.
When they tell you: “That man
does not love you,” remember
that my feet are alone in that night, and they seek
the sweet and tiny feel that I adore.
Love, when they tell you
that I have forgotten you, and even when
it is I who say it,
when I say it to you,
do not believe me,
who could and how could anyone
cut you from my heart
and who would receive
my blood
when I went bleeding toward you?
But still I can not
forget my people.
I am going to fight in each street,
behind each stone.
Your love also helps me:
it is a closed flower
that constantly fills me with its aroma
and that opens suddenly
within me like a great star.

My love, it is night.

The black water, the sleeping
world surround me.
Soon dawn will come,
and meanwhile I write you
to tell you: “I love you.”
to tell you: “I love you,” care for,
clean, lift up,
defend
our love, my darling.
I leave it with you as if I left
a handful of earth with seeds.
From our love lives will be born.
In our love they will drink water.
Perhaps a day will come
when a man
and a woman, like
us,
will touch this love and it will still have the strength
to burn the hands that touch it.
Who were we? What does it matter?
They will touch this fire
and the fire, my sweet, will say your simple name
and mine, the name
that only you knew, because you alone
upon earth know
who I am, and because nobody knew me like one,
like just one hand of yours,
because nobody
knew how or when
my heart was burning:
only
your great dark eyes knew,
your wide mouth,
your skin, your breasts,
your belly, your insides,
and your soul that I awoke
so that it would go on
singing until the end of life.

Love, I am waiting for you.
Farewell, love, I am waiting for you.
Love, love, I am waiting for you.

And so this letter ends
with no sadness:
my hand writes this letter on the road,
and in the midst of life I shall be
always
beside the friend, facing the enemy,
with your name on my mouth
and a kiss that never
broke away from yours.

Thank you. Good-bye.

So I'm standing in the parking lot of one of our two grocery stores in the county, with three roosters, listening to Sting, as you do, waiting for someone to come and adopt my avian laddies because our intern season is about to begin again and they have a rather well-earned rep for terrifying, scarring and bruising the women. I'm supposed to be meeting someone named Mr. D whom my husband found on Craigslist. I told the laddies all the way into town that they will have nice green grass to run around on, and bugs to hunt, and ducks to scare. But I'm starting to worry. I asked my husband to call Mr. D. after I left, half an hour ago, from home, but I have no idea if he did so. I arrived ten minutes late for our original appointment, and don't know if he was here and gave up, has yet to arrive, or forgot completely about our rendezvous, and, without my husband's prodding, will never show up. I'm late beginning one of my two “writing days” per week. These blessings are an idea my husband came up with to keep me from slitting my wrists. And I still have more errands to run for my day job.

I ask every man who pulls into the parking lot if he's Mr. D. Happily, no one's shot me or had me arrested yet. I don't have a cell phone so calling Mr. D. is out of the question.

My salvation arrives in the form of Mr. E., who looks like he's lived in La Plaza since about a century before Noah sailed; he walks over, asks me what I'm selling and I explain that I'm waiting to give three roosters to a fellow who wants them, seemingly, as pets. He brightens up, tells me he use to raise roosters until the nearby hotel began complaining that their sunrise crowing was waking the guests. But now the hotel has gone out of business. He gives me his address and phone number, says if Mr. D. doesn't arrive I can bring the roosters to him and he'll find them a good home.

I go into the store, leaving the roosters listening to “Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot” (with the windows down, of course) and call my husband.  I get voice mail because we don't even have a normal phone at home. We have Skype, because it's cheap and doesn't require the (very expensive) installation of telephone poles to bring a hard-line onto our land and to our house. Unfortunately, we can only access calls when we're on a computer, which of course my husband—working as a farmer all day in April—seldom is. We're very well-aware, thank you, that in theory we could use somebody's old smartphone to access Skype in our wifi-blessed house. In fact, we've had no less than four donated to us by lovely, technologically more progressive friends for just this purpose. The phones make very convenient, albeit lousy, cameras. Otherwise they sit unused.  Off grid, ever- concerned about wattage, we never remember to plug them in.

I tell my husband that Mr. D. is now 40 minutes late for our appointment, and mention Mr. E. When, after another 10 minutes, Mr. D. doesn't show, I drive over to Mr. E's. He seems delighted to see me and tells me to come around back. There, behind his house, is a veritable smorgasbord of well-tended sheds and animal-free corrals.  He pulls out a large animal travel crate (usually used for dogs) and asks me to put the birds in for fear they'll fly away from him. I'm concerned about this. My boys usually free-range around a large chicken run. I promised them grass and bugs, not life in a cage. But I'm pretty short of options. I ask Mr. E. if they can run around his yard. Kindness and loneliness waft off him in equal measure. He assures me he will call his friend who has ducks and chickens right away and see if she wants them. If she doesn't, it goes without saying, they will eventually be his dinner.  He is not a wealthy man, to put it mildly, and he is an elder.  This would be an honorable end for the Buffy-the-Farmer-Slayer, Morris (pretty as a peach, relentlessly attacking those who care for him), and Albert, my hero and protector from crabby Morris, condemned as guilty by association.

I take the boys out one at a time, hold them close, say thank you and good-bye, and let them go into the crate. They are looking around intelligently, curiously, confused, wondering where the hell they are. All three crowd into the far end of the cage.

Mr. E's in a chatty mood. I keep shaking his hand and thanking him, but he won't let me go. He tells me about his Easter, which, despite his being a man of God, he spent mostly alone.  This makes me terribly sad.  He tells me he goes to church every weekend and asks if I do. I'm not getting the "he's about to ask me if Jesus is my personal savior" tail-tingling, so I'm not anxious to leave, but I do want to get going.  And I realize, sadly, it's as much about guilt as my desire to write. I have a relationship with these animals, and now I'm just leaving them here, to an uncertain future, with a total stranger. It does not feel good or right. Mr. E. assures me they'll go to a good home, but I cannot see that home now, and cannot imagine how roosters are going to wind up anything but stewed. Mr. E. asks if we sell our hens' eggs, and if so for how much. I tell him, already knowing that if he wants to buy some there's no way I'm going to charge him. He also tells me that if the “check engine” light in my old used car ever comes on all I have to do is disconnect the battery for 20 minutes and the computer will reset itself. I did not solicit this information; it was a gift.

I leave Mr. E. and that silence falls over me that falls on you at a parting, or a death. The CD in my player changes as I head to the bank. The Reals' “Anchor” comes on. It's a lovely song, made lovelier by the fact that I know the lead singer and guitarist, Matt Kowal. Matt's people are from this county, and when he sings later about kids playing in a stream, I can't help wondering if he means the erstwhile river that runs through our land. But now he's singing about love and loss, “then when you go, I'm sinking low like an anchor.”

I make my deposit; the clerk smiles at me like he's enjoying The Reals' bellowing out of my car. Next the post office, and then the drug store. They have my prescription ready.  Hallelujah. When the young pharmacy assistant, whom I've never seen before, hands it to me he says, “that should take care of you.” It feels, in context, like an extraordinarily weird and inappropriate thing for him to say. My meds are for depression and anxiety, of the life-threatening variety. It occurs to me that, though he's not a pharmacist himself, he surely knows that from looking at them. I suddenly feel quite naked.

At the checkout counter a young woman is being trained to cashier. She's sweet and earnest. She staples closed the paper bag of three pill bottles given me by the pharmacy assistant. As she hands it to me she asks me if I'd like a bag.  I cannot resist pointing out the obvious.  She giggles. 

They looked so frightened, uncertain, alone.

I drive to the county's second grocery store to check their dumpsters. They're very kind about leaving the dumpsters open, unlocked, unlike many grocery stores in the state, because our county vies with the one next door for poorest in Colorado; they know people are hungry. Our apprentice farmer is a first-rate dumpster diver who brought us tons of delicious strawberries, oranges, and collard greens, all still edible, all sealed in plastic, from her last expedition. In her honor, I check out what's available inside before placing my trash-bag—carefully--in the waste receptacle: only Red Bull, which I'm elated to see is being thrown away and which I leave where it belongs.

Matt is singing about putting his grandparents' ashes in a waterfall. I put my friend, Helen's, ashes down on our land, in the chokecherry grove. I sobbed, quite unexpectedly, while doing so. I had never before been responsible for laying human remains to rest. And I guess I miss Helen more than I realized.

What if he can't find a home for them? He'll eat them. That will be it.

How long will they have to live in that cage?

In the grocery store I pick up a few things for my lunch. Salad greens, a cucumber...the kinds of things the roosters would love.

I drive to the library, the silence still heavy on me, because I know I will forget them. Not their names, or their personalities, but the heaviness, the guilt, the sense of...wrongness I feel right now. I will bury it in my flesh, it will become a part of me. A part I accept but do not like, and remember only in dreams. I've eaten a lot of chicken in my life. But I've never looked my dinner in the eyes and said “thank you. Good-bye.” I've known the names of some of the beef I've eaten, but never the chickens.

A good day of writing puts them out of my mind for several hours. Overwhelmed with inexplicable exhaustion, I leave before dark to head home, stopping at an acquaintance's farm en route. L., a strong, sunkissed woman in her 30s with an easy smile and a fierce intelligence, greets me at the door to her farmhouse. I've come to pay her for chicken feed I bought last week. We stand on her porch a few moments, chatting about this and that...the farmers' market, dogs, sheep. She and her husband have a beautiful piece of land with a view of the mountains, and a plethora of sheep and lambs out at pasture. I tell her one of our goats is pregnant, will kid later this month. I ask her, if one of the babies is a boy, would she like it. For food. She isn't sure. She'll talk it over with her husband. I know if that day comes I will dread it, and I will hate myself even more than I do now. But I will give her the kid, and she and her family will eat well.

On the way home, I see, as though for the first time all day, the light as it falls, the ferocious blue clarity of the sky, the crispness of the mountains. A hawk flies overhead, and I am awestruck by the beauty of this world.

Episode 2.10: Magnum of Champagne, Please

Thank you so much for the break from hagiography

 It takes a lot of balls to name one's script “Magnum Opus.” regardless of the story one is telling. Nevertheless, I can't really fault Donald Todd on this one. He and director Doug Aarniokoski did great work on the piece. That doesn't mean I don't have issues because I do, and some of them are rather serious. But let's just say that any episode which gives us not one but two sword-fights between Abraham and Ichabod, filled with fabulous, character-developing exposition; a Gorgon; both Katrina and Abraham getting to be funny, even for a moment; George Washington being called out as our liar-in-chief; and a gorgeous Excalibur beat for Ichabod, deserves a little celebrating.

Todd achieves what is, in my mind, a minor miracle in Act One, when he deftly and believably introduces our theme, our heroes' mission, our villains, their goals, our C story, some fine detective work, and a good scare all before the first commercial break, but with such fine story-telling it doesn't feel at all like he's going through a checklist. The pace is fast but comprehensible, despite being set almost entirely in the archives, trusting in the relationship between Abbie and Crane for its power; the exposition doesn't feel like exposition; not a single line is wasted.

The episode's theme is introduced in the very first line, which I appreciate, when Crane says, “the question is, who am I?” Using the serious-Ichabod-face-to-introduce-funny-scene trope we've seen a little too much for my taste, we're off and running. Abbie and Crane exposit well why they're playing the “who am I?” game; it's a technique, Abbie explains, which criminal profilers use to distract their conscious minds so that their subconscious minds can more effectively problem-solve. They're struggling to find the weapon for defeating Moloch hidden in Grace Dixon's journal. Abbie's hint to Crane for George Washington-- “I cannot tell a lie"–leads adorably to Crane tapping himself on the nose and guessing, “Oh, oh! The little wooden puppet boy!” When Crane sees “he” is George Washington, he admonishes Abbie with some marvelous historical truth-speaking about glorious George. “He was our liar-in-Chief”!!

 (Just out of curiosity, how in the hell was Crane ever going to give Abbie clues about Cher?!)

Katrina figures out how to use Team Evil's mirror-phone to inform Crane and Abbie that she has--shockingly--failed in her mission to kill Moloch. I love the look on Abbie's face on hearing the news. She's so not surprised this intel doesn't even slightly throw her. Again, Katrina proves herself the weakest link because not only has she failed in her mission, but now thanks to her reporting said failure, Henry, using some of sort of warlocky *69, is able to open a clear line to the Archives and begins bugging Team Stop-the-Apocalypse's HQ.

Thus we come to Val's issue #1 with this week's episode: Henry couldn't figure out a way to bug Team Stop-The-Apocalypse HQ without this trick? I mean, it's not like he doesn't know where they are. It's not like he can't break in at any time. It's not like he's not a friggin' immortal warlock and the Horseman of War, who hangs out with the immortal Horseman of Death, or anything, and therefore can easily kill all of them wbenever he wants!?!?!?! (I vow to forget this, every week, Sleepy, because I love you. But if you're determined once again to make Katrina appear to be the worst operative in the history of witches, don't be surprised when I come swinging).

As Katrina fades out, Crane suddenly feels inspired vis-a-vis Grace's journal and the weapon he and Abbie are searching for. We're then treated to some brief but lovely tension between Ichabod and Abbie when Crane tells his partner, “It seems my wife's appearance has created a more potent distraction than your parlor game.” Abbie doesn't want to hear that. “You're just mad because you lost.”

And now for our A-story. Yikes.  I promised you Sleepy writers back at the beginning of the season that I would put up with pretty much any plot ludicrousness you wanted to throw at us, provided the “heart” was there: meaningful relationships, real human struggles, heartbreak and joy. The Evel-Knievel-inspired chasm-leaps our heroes must take to figure out that the weapon hidden inside Grace's journal is the Sword of Methusaleh, not to mention the subsequent detective work used to locate it, tested this promise sorely. However, Genevieve Valentine did an extraordinary job eviscerating you for the plot; I don't need to pour salt on an open gut wound. And, to be fair, once we get out of the archives, the A-story proceeds pretty darned well, actually.

"Is it true, Lyndie, what Michael Moore said?  You guys
don't even lock your doors?"

An alert on Abbie's phone regarding the manhunt for Irving gives us a perfect transition to our C story. We cut to Jenny's car as she speeds to ferry escaped, accused cop-killer/mental patient Frank to Canada. Lyndie Greenwood and Orlando Jones do a terrific job grounding this scene, playing it real, and the police checkpoint approach keeps everything tense and tight. The exposition is well-handled; when Jenny checks her phone and sees Abbie's warning, Jones, with marvelous apathy, tells her “no texting while driving.” Jenny's reply reminds us of Irving's history. “Always the cop.” (Or sane person. Or person who watched Seven Pounds. Or all of the above). Given their supernatural opponents, Irving's skeptical that getting him to Canada is going to keep him safe. When Jones dryly asks Greenwood, “you really think anywhere is safe any more?” Greenwood plays Jenny's conviction perfectly-strained as she replies, “I have to [I'm Canadian].”

Back at the archives, continuing our supernatural plot leaps, Crane pulls out of his lovely ass the notion that using “mirror anamorphosis” will help them find their next clue. They've already figured out that the Sword of Methusaleh, described in the book of Enoch, will give them the power to slay any entity, human or supernatural, on earth. Now they just need to figure out where it is.

“The distortion of an image to disguise it” is a gorgeous poetic statement which bundles together the numerous image vs. identity threads running through this episode. But how the hell did Crane a) know that would work and b) know exactly where on the drawing in Grace's journal to place the reflective cup in order to see the “Join or Die” snake? And how does Crane know the snake's tongue marks a spot, like a treasure map? More to the point, how on earth did the “Join or Die” cartoon tell the Freemasons (or anybody, without Grace's journal) that the Sword of Methuselah is here in the New World? (Whoops, sorry. I forgot I'm leaving plot-chasm-leaping to Genevieve).

Since Henry's been eavesdropping on the Witnesses' whole conversation, once they've deduced where the sword is, he promptly dispatches Abraham to get it before they do. Headless protests, whining believably that it's nearly dawn, the time when he is most vulnerable.

Back in the archives, Abbie reminds us that she got clarity on her life's purpose in the previous episode, which I think is a bit of a stretch, but it's certainly explained better here when Abbie tells Crane that Grace's journal is her legacy, and that she is here to finish the work her family started. Therefore, with Abbie's purpose neatly wrapped up, and Crane wistfully noting “clarity of purpose is such a rare gift,” we are ready to give Crane's search for self and purpose all the play in this episode. Thus begins my thematic complaint, aka, Val's Issue With This Episode #2.

“Who am I?” is an awesome, fascinating, wonderful problem for our hero to have, especially going into the Mega-Confrontation with Moloch. I just so desperately wish it had been hinted at/built to more in other episodes, so that the impact could have been fully felt, instead of feeling contrived. One could certainly, ex post facto, find evidence in the series history to support this idea—and, through Crane's dialogue and marvelous flashbacks, God bless Donald Todd, he valiantly tries to do so—but, really, Sleepy writers, since when has Crane not known his purpose?

Throughout much of the episode our hero is quite without precedent bemoaning the fact that every crucial choice he's made, every defining moment of his life, has been unduly influenced by others (one could argue this is equally true of Abbie, and the planet, but we won't). The warning that comes with the sword prophecy--"know thyself utterly or perish when you attempt to see"—is therefore particularly alarming to Crane. While he focuses on the impact of Abraham on his life, Ichabod leaves out some pretty darned key influential figures, including his father, George Washington, Moloch; the masons, who persuaded him to end his life; his son, Henry Parrish, who saved his life (only to later try to end it); and Arthur Bernard, who felt that he had saved his soul by persuading him to turn his back on England, his family, and his inheritance. (But, you know what? None of them are going to kill a Gorgon by the end of this episode, so fuck 'em).

Act Two is handled so gorgeously. Thanks to Abbie's deductive reasoning, and help from her late mama, we learn where the sword is most-likely hiding. Keeping things tense, our heroes also learn at that precise moment that Abe is after the same thing. Adding refreshing, believable flesh to her character, Abbie plays Reckless Witness in this episode, rushing in where Ichabod knows better than to tread, racing in before her mortal foe to find the sword.  Annoyed, but observing the Partner's Code to the letter, Crane follows.

Aarniovski's directing is just superb in this scene. From the sound of the Horseman's boots on the stone steps, to the camera angles, lighting, and pacing, not to mention the fabulous acting, one can feel, viscerally, that this creature is what Crane and Abbie most fear. But that doesn't stop our hero, when Abbie's need is most dire, from luring him away from his partner with an odd stage flourish. Fortunately, sunrise comes hella fast, but because we are treated—through framing, setting, lighting, and especially acting--to one of the most gorgeous moments ever in Sleepy Hollow, I don't care. When Ichabod, about to be killed by Headless, sees the sunlight hit his trouser-leg--“Good morning, Sunshine” --knowing that now he and Abbie will be safe, it's breathtakingly beautiful.

I think that I shall never see/a tree as lovely as this scene.

A charming exchange between our witnesses follows. “You're telling me you knew exactly when the sun would rise?” Abbie asks, understanding at last Crane's hesitation in running after the Horseman. She figures he must have used some sort of 18^th Century wisdom, star knowledge etc.

“You installed a weather application for me,” Crane replies showing her his phone. “It also foretells a 15% chance of precipitation” he continues with the most darling hint of a smirk in his voice.

We then move deep into the heart of our episode's heart, namely, the relationship between Ichabod and Abraham. I absolutely adore the fact that the relationship between these two men is given so much stage. It's one of the most exciting relationships in the canon, and any amount of time you writers want to devote deftly to it (and Todd's work on it here is nothing if not deft) I am totally game for.

But when Crane introduces this B story and it's relationship to this week's theme, telling us his quest for the sword must pass through Abraham, “as my life's journey has till now,” for the reasons listed above, my head wanted to explode.

That said, the entire rest of this act is gorgeously done. The sparring between Abraham and Crane in flashback is beautifully choreographed and photographed (thank you so much, Mr. Aarniovski, for letting us watch it without getting dizzy), and the relational exposition between the two men is marvelously handled by writer, director and actors. Many thanks to wardrobe, hair and makeup, lighting and cinematographers, not to mention their parents' genes, for rendering both handsome actors exceptionally arresting.

As Crane's mind returns to Abbie and the present he tells her, “Abraham made me who I am.” Even Abbie's not fully on board with this B-story. “That's going a bit far, isn't it?” she asks on behalf of the audience. We conclude with the very heavy statement, deftly handled by Mison, “we shall meet in battle again only this time he's the Horseman of Death and I must know myself completely or perish.”

Well, gosh.

To explain how Abraham even contributed to Katrina's profound influence on Crane's life, we are treated to a wonderful flashback of the three in a pub back in the day. All the actors are marvelous in this scene, but Mison is amazing. He is beyond believable as a man completely enamored of Katrina, and devastated to learn she is betrothed to his best friend.

Um, don't you think I have had a bit of an influence on your life?

Returning again to Abbie, our hero laments, “how do I know myself completely when at every turn my destiny has been determined by others?” Abbie tells him she struggled with that too, but now she has Grace Dixon's journal and a destiny (she didn't have a destiny until the journal came along?).

Headless unfortunately took the primary material clue our heroes need to find the sword, but Abbie—being Abbie—got a look at it before he did: a steel plate with the design of a snake eating its tail. “Ouroboros,” Crane tells her. “As above, so below.”

Professor Crane then hops up on the ledge above Abbie and begins a romantic lecture on the various meanings of the symbol (just put Mison on something remotely resembling a stage and watch him go). Abbie grounds him gorgeously out of his pedantry with the realization that the clue is literal. The Witnesses discover, beneath the location of the stolen plaque, huge metal doors leading into a cave via a stairwell. Keeping with tradition, Crane's chivalry/feminism insists that Abbie go first into the most dangerous of situations. You can see from the look on her face she's getting tired of that.

Down in the cave, our heroes encounter a most unexpected phenomenon: statues of people from numerous countries and eras in history. The scene is tense, beautiful, and builds the mystery well, especially when they find, among the statues, one of Grace Dixon's daughters or granddaughters. As our heroes slowly come to realize that the statues are actual people turned to stone, Ichabod's training in Greek myth comes to their aid. As our Gorgon terrifyingly appears and chases them up the stairs, and Crane shouts all Indiana-Jones-like, “don't look back!” it's pretty friggin' awesome, I daresay. First Greek tragedy and now Greek monsters come to Sleepy Hollow! Whoo-hoo!

As Abbie tries to calm her nerves, Crane's mind wanders off through an absurd thicket. Noting that the people turned to stone by looking in the Gorgon's face included explorers from multiple nations and various times, he proposes, “perhaps the very founding of the New World was but a by-product of the search for the sword.” Are you just flat-out winking at us now, Mr. Todd? Or is there a new contest in the writers' room to break Mison? Instead of trying to choke him with delicious, elocution-defying speeches, you all have made a pact instead to see who can give him the most ridiculous thing to say with a straight face?

Naturally, being Tom Mison, he doesn't bat an eye.

Abbie speaks for me when she asks him, incredulous, “that's what you took away from what we just saw?” Freaking out ever-so-slightly about all the women in her family cut down in their prime by Moloch's evil, including her stone ancestor in the cave, Abbie shows rare and real fear that she is next. Crane tries to valiantly to reassure her, “we must face our fears as we always do.” But Abbie has a better idea: let someone with no eyes, who therefore cannot be turned to stone by the Gorgon, face the monster instead. Namely, Headless. Brilliant.

In a quick cut away to our C story, we learn that Irving has decided not to rendezvous with Jenny and make a run for the border; he tells her in a voice message that he's going to stay underground, and fight.

"I'm not saying you can't make a living playing the shofar
son, only that you might want to keep open other options."

Meanwhile, in D-Story land, Henry gets out an apocalyptic shofar back at Fredericks' manor, and Katrina, for the first time ever, gets to be funny! “It's nice to see that you've taken up an instrument,” she tells her son. “Perhaps after dinner tonight we can have a recital.”

Illusion and deception continue to fan out thematically. With still more extremely efficient, yet believable, story-telling we learn that Moloch has grown to his full glory and we're not even going to pretend he's a petulant English boy anymore. Henry confronts Katrina with the unused poison she mixed up for killing Moloch. “I hesitated” she tells her son, so at last now we know why she failed so abysmally in her mission.

Continuing with our theme of identity, Henry sneers at his mother, “you see yourself as strong. A witch, a spy, a wife. Time and again your humanity defines you.” I love how he says it like it's a bad thing. He then tells Katrina how her use of the mirror inadvertently betrayed Ichabod, and how she could have prevented all of this by letting Ichabod (and, presumably, the Horseman) die, thereby freeing Katrina to raise Jeremy herself. Fond though I am of Crane, I have to admit he has a point. At last he lifts his enchantment so Katrina can see modern Fredericks Manor and Moloch for what they truly are--decrepit, and monstrous.

Back at the landing above the Gorgon's cave, our heroes have been preparing for the next step of their quest. In a marvelous, hilarious exchange, Ichabod proudly describes to Abbie how he very creatively fashioned torches from branches and his socks, dipped in pitch. Unimpressed, Abbie counters drily with the flares she brought. Alas, the reiteration of the plan, for those who just tuned in, was annoying and clunky. Couldn't we have just watched it unfold? 'Tis a lovely moment when Crane reassures Abbie tenderly, “your mother would be very proud.”

With nightfall, Headless arrives, and honest-to-God, I cannot believe he again fell for the old “oh, look! There's the Horseman. Run, Leftenant!” trick. Why does he suppose his adversaries are still there from this morning? Oh, wait. This is the guy who let himself believe that Katrina willingly came back to be the bride of a dead guy who plans to behead her. Never mind.

"Yeah?!  Well at least I still HAVE breath, dude!"

While Headless obligingly fights the Gorgon for them, Abbie and Crane run for the sword room where they find a bakers' dozen of swords surrounding an urn. Crane explains “we must determine which is the true sword” for any of us who never saw Raiders of the Lost Ark.

“Right,” Abbie replies. “Cause getting here just wasn't hard enough.” Sorry, doll.  Not for prime time.

Crane's decision to “hold off the victor [between Abraham and the Gorgon] in battle” while Abbie looks for the correct sword is great given that he's our hero, and we so need to see him and Abraham duel again. But given that he has no chance of defeating the Horseman without the sword, wouldn't it make more sense for him to stay with Abbie and try to figure out which is the correct sword? Yeah, I know. Where's the fun in that? Never mind. On to the duel! But not before Crane-the-Oxford-scholar hilariously returns to make sure Abbie knows, “it might be a test. You may only get one chance.”

Let's hear it for socks and pitch!

The entire duel between Ichabod and Abraham is just magnificent. In a gorgeous inversion to the scene between Henry and Katrina, the cave is enchanted with a spell which requires all within to show their “truest face.” What does it mean to our story long-term that Abraham's own face, and not Death's, is still his most true? I don't know, but any chance to see Jackson and Mison duel whilst expositing their emotional anguish with the other I will gladly take. Pass the popcorn.

I loved how, when Ichabod recounts to his former friend their various mortal duels—wherein each of them won one, and one was left a draw--he conveniently leaves out the one where Headless defeated him and would have killed him back in Jefferson's cell were it not for Andy Brooks. Seriously, I didn't mind at all because it would have ruined the gorgeous narrative, and I didn't remember it myself till seeing it a second time.

When Ichabod says, “I want redemption for you Abraham, but all I see is a ghost of the man I once knew,” and Abraham replies with a completely straight face, “Well, Ichabod, that is because I am dead!” I wanted to kiss you, Shekel Guy.  How many times did you have to shoot this scene before Mison and Jackson stopped pissing themselves laughing whenever they got to that line?

When Abraham blames Ichabod for stealing his destiny, insisting that “I was supposed to be the hero of this story, not the villain!” I seriously got chills. These two actors are so well-matched, and this was one of the best lines, best directed, best delivered, in Sleepy Hollow history!

Crane draws a very important conclusion in this scene, which, alas, I did not see or appreciate until the second or third viewing--namely, that our choices define us—when he tells Abraham the latter chose to let jealousy get the better of him, chose to become the Horseman of Death and serve Moloch, two choices made in an instant which ensured Katrina would never love him.

Of course, when Bram counters that with his fairly successful, I think, attempt at head-tripping Ichabod, “have you ever noticed how [Katrina] always returns to me?” I couldn't help but shout at my TV, “yeah, we have Abraham, and believe me, we're as tired of it as Crane!”

Whilst Crane and Abraham again attempt to resolve which is the better man via swordplay, back in the Room of Too Many Swords, Abbie bravely chooses one, only to have it—and all the swords—transform into entirely different--breathing--phallic symbols. When Ichabod retreats from Abraham into the sword room, Abbie gives him the bad news: “There's no sword.” Continuing our lovely homages to Raiders of the Lost Ark, there is now, however, a shit-ton of snakes keeping our heroes company in this underground cavern.

"Let's see...I could kill you, Evil's most dangerous adversaries,
or I can fulfill my inner child's need to go
'nyahh, nyahh, nya nyahh, nyahh.'"

Enter Abraham, ready to kill Crane and Abbie, demanding the sword. When the Witnesses convince him there is no sword, he is about to kill the two of them, but because he hears the shofar, evidence that Moloch has risen, and the Apocalypse will finally begin, he doesn't.

Let's pause here a moment. So, rather than simply killing the two Witnesses, which a) per literature's Occam's razor, would absolutely have made the most sense and b) would have been easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy (albeit admittedly rather problematic in terms of the future of the series), Bram venomously tells Crane that the latter was right.

“We are the choices we make in the moment, as you said. And I choose to watch you suffer in hell looking on for an eternity as I ride with your former wife! I choose who I am. I am the Horseman of Death!” Okay, excellent—albeit very fast—attempt to make the unbelievable both believable and interesting. But, seriously, Abraham, I'm pretty sure you just resigned your commission as Horseman of Death in favor of serving as the Horseman of Schadenfreude (it's in the Gnostic version of The Revelation).

When Abraham spits at Crane, “you have no sword. You are nothing!” you can see in Mison's magnificent visage that Ichabod believes him. It's a glorious moment, and extremely important, because Crane has told us throughout the episode that Abraham has had an undo influence on his identity. But again, it is sped over so terribly quickly that, for this viewer it didn't have time to land.

The Horseman leaves our two Witnesses in decidedly different mental states. While Mison is a marvel showing us how shaken Crane is from the confrontation with Abraham, and the realization that the shofar is the trumpet from the Book of Revelation--“I fear the prophecy was correct. I cannot see the sword because I do not know myself”--Beharie's Abbie is as cool as the proverbial cucumber, her confidence in her mission and herself blocking out all doubt. The distinction in tenor between the two Witnesses is valuable and important, and I appreciate Nicole Beharie's consistent and beautiful transformation of Abbie into a BAMF Witness par excellence, now that she has Grace's journal and a mission. Yet, I do miss the vulnerability of old Abbie. Like her meltdown after they first saw the Gorgon, this would have seemed an appropriate moment for at least some fear to surface.

With Abbie firmly supporting him, Crane concludes so quickly that I missed it the first time through that “life is a series of choices.” Abbie tells him he chose to be a patriot and a hero, not to give up when the world around him ends, so he decides—so mind-bogglingly fast that we don't even see it's a choice—that he prefers her version of who he is to Abraham's, thanks. “It is through your eyes I see myself most clearly.” Well, yeah, dude! Who wouldn't when that's how a beautiful, brave woman sees you?!?

And herein lies my primary complaint with this episode, the primary reason it only made it to #3 on my “Best of Season 2” list: I found the resolution to this episode's puzzle, Ichabod Crane asking “who am I?”, wholly unsatisfying and unclear the first time through. I get that, following such a fabulous climax, you needed to keep the denouement tight. But if you guys are going to mess around with really meaningful emotional arcs like “I don't know who I am”--and I LOVE it when you do—you've got to make the end of the journey a little less convoluted. I LOVE the idea that these two don't get easy answers when asking such tough questions. It gives us a lot of latitude to keeping playing with their characters moving forward, but more to the point, it's more interesting writing. But if you're going to take us to the place that “identity is a series of choices” (which is not how Abbie got her identity, incidentally), the breakneck pace has got to slow down enough for this payoff to really land.

Brought back from the brink by his partner's loyalty and admiration, Crane continues to seek the sword. He studies his reflection in the urn before him, touches it, realizes it's oil. Abbie gives him the go-ahead, and he slowly lowers his torch to the oil, knowing that if he does not, in fact, know himself completely, they could both be consumed in a conflagration. And then, just as the torch touches the oil...it goes out. “Gods wounds,” Crane curses. It's an adorable moment, given the tense build-up.

Given the solution to the puzzle—which is marvelous, by the way—it's poetically perfect that it takes Abbie to figure it out. “What do we have that those different explorers didn't have?”

Ichabod gets it immediately. “Each other.”

And let's just pause there for a moment. What you're actually saying here--that neither Abbie nor Crane is their “truest” self without the other--is utterly brilliant, fantastic, wonderful and perfect. It's also kind of huge. And yet, in our race to conclude, this moment is also damned near obliterated by the incessantly beeping Roadrunner.  Bummer.

Is it too soon to start lobbying for Mison to play Aragorn
in the (totally unnecessary) remake of LOTR?  

With both Witnesses' torches touching the urn, the oil beautifully burns back enough for us all to see the sword, and we are treated to a gorgeous vision of Arthur... er, Aragorn...er, Ichabod pulling the sword out of the urn, announcing that “Moloch shall not rise.” A tight, marvelous ending leading us straight and excitingly into our mid-season finale.

A beautiful job, all, I just so wish I'd felt more fulfilled by the exploration of the marvelous theme.