Thursday and Jude: Half-angels

June 19, 2017 § Leave a comment

As an outsider who has resided largely in Mad City for the last nine years, my perspective is not so much mixed as it is unusual. I would offer the following information to the more observant traveler who may be looking for something on their journey other than tourist sites and local food: Mad City hosts strange and eerie sudden changes in pressure, a solid weather scheme that brags of no surprises, and a diverse group of people who are all oddly similar at first glance. This hodgepodge is what I call the Mad City Brew Phenomena. It takes a person of a holy, mystical, or artistic background to see the magic that underlies the days. Mad City, a place where saints tend bar—and sit to drink in them—and half-angels exercise their charms in the swarms of college students, finding sanctuary and earthly approbation, brew by brew and bosom by bosom.

Half-angels are a dangerous breed. They spend the first part of their lives confused. The Original Sin of humanity’s original couple is nothing compared to the fall from grace experienced by those who are half-divine. It doesn’t pass on, mostly. Half-angels are only half-angels. There are no quarter angels or humans with one eighth of angel heritage. The magic dissolves after the firstborn half-angel. These half-angels are distraught and pitiful creatures, unlike humans, they cannot bear to have children. Half-angels are mostly a disgrace to mankind, sexual deviants, sociopaths, serial killers, there are few that can reconcile their bloodline, whether they know of it or not.

Their question to the heavens is “Why?” and then “Fuck you for delivering me into hell.” And then, again, “Why?”

Half-angels are in top form during Autumn, they are beyond captivating. You can see dreams brimming at the corners of their eyes. Their speech is snappy, feverish with intensity. Their dialogue like the light crackle of a bonfire, their words like the crunch of a cornhusk.

They are casually seductive. Everything they do is almost on purpose. It is the way they linger. Twirling an empty rocks glass with one hand while listening to a story. Or palming an apple, tapping it with polished nails, thinking about where to would break the skin first.

If they are sorry or sad, unable to find the words to express themselves, they use their bodies as an apologetic tool. All the words they know can’t afford them the right thing to say at the right time. But feeling pleasure, and giving pleasure, forms the perfect sentiment.

You can spot a half angel if you look closely, but you can only recognize them when the leaves have fallen. You can spot this unusual halo, sometimes, when the leaves form a whirling hurricane around them. This can happen anywhere. When they are at an intersection, waiting to cross the street; while they are smoking a cigarette outside; while they are fucking a beautiful girl the leaves will beat madly outside their window.


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