The Secret Life of Hubcaps- A (re)Collection

This was the original intro to this book


The Secret Life of Hubcaps

A (re)Collection

I’m home, lost my job and I’m incurably ill. You think this is easy realism?*
I traveled 4600 miles in two weeks. If I had been pointed in one direction, I could be in Quito Ecuador by now, but instead I am back home in Tucson. Parts of me went with. Parts of me are all that ever go with. Some of me stayed in Tucson. I visited a large chunk of me in the Midwest. Some parts are scattered and move about in other peoples pockets. Pizzas get sliced and grabbed. Cards are cut and passed from hand to hand. A soul, my soul, would be better off in one piece. All the Kings horses, all the Kings me... The Kings me. The King is me? I don’t think so. If I really am the king, I will find a magic wand and hit myself in the head so hard that I wake up a week later. I will banish the fear, doubt and sadness from my kingdom. My thrown will be the front seat of a moving car, the sun shining in the window as I drive far from each heartbroken subject. I’ll gladly reign as an enlightened despot, fitting the bits of me back into a single soul, The soul: Mind, Will, Emotions. A set of molecules vibrating in unison at the correct speed to produce a single unified Mark Steven Archambault. At this time, however, I am not the King, not even A king. I am just pieces of a handsome man, looking for the rest of himself to catch up as I dance my Humpty dance. I am a DJ, I am what I play. I got believers, believing me.*

This is a collection of song lyrics, magazine articles, short writings, excerpts of two books and a tract I once paid to publish in a newspaper. I have added fresh writings to draw it together. The sole (pun intended) point of this assemblage is to bring me in focus to myself. I, like so many people at my age, would like to know how I got here. What choices led to this place and what choices lead away from here?

Furries was a novel designed to get almost every twisted thought out of my head. I discovered I was kind of funny, At the time I had no way of knowing it would end a 22 year marriage. This would not have stopped me, but it is the case. A choice.

Manna: A Journey into Prophetic Song is a collection of true stories from my first great spiritual awaking. Life has been a blending of spirits, music, voices from another place, voices from a larger town. Whereas Furries is a series of real misadventures wrapped in a fictional story, every word of Manna happened. Supernatural events that shaped my life . I have chased the Spirit and It has captivated me. A choice.

Pastor, musician, writer, artist, husband, dad, hero and villain. All these things are choices. The choices that have torn my soul and left me wandering.

As for the title, The Secret Life of Hubcaps, I had a dream a few months ago. In it I wrote this book and this was the title in the dream. Being ever mindful of the need for speed, balanced with a confusing and often overwhelming schedule, I am working on it now. The names have been changed in all the stories, details blurred, for a more complete run down see the chapter titled Furries Introduction.

Angels, Demons, Queen Bees and coffee stains: welcome to my (re)Collection.
August 2009

*David Bowie "I Am A DJ"

Bourguet Home

Micquette and I spent this last weekend in Monticello New Mexico. Monticello is a semi-ghost town of 100 souls on a dead-end dirt road West of Truth or Consequences. We found the school her grandmother attended, her great-grandparents graves, a fire house dedicated to James Bourguet (her great-grandfather). Across from the fire house, we had a long conversation about the area with a member of the historical society. The village, nestled in a peaceful valley, is a time capsule of the 1880's.

Driving North-West out of town, we crossed a wash lined by large Cottonwood trees. The word "Idyllic" ran through my head as the trees swayed in the breeze. "That's it, that's my great-grandparents house." Micquette's smile lit up the car. Under the trees, sheltered by a hill, stood what was left of an adobe house, it's blocks returning to the earth through rain and wind. We crawled under a barbed wire fence and stepped back in time. Over 100 years ago, her family built this home and filled it with dreams, hope and lots of children. I walked around the broken walls, listening to the story of a couple creating something from nothing. Creating family. The house had been home to a lifetime of memories. I looked through every tree for the fort that all boys build. We saw glass jars and a long abandoned refrigerator.

After James died, his wife Guadalope moved away. The structure had done its job. The kids were all adults. Micquette's grandmother, Lucia became a teacher, a wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother... She lived in Silverbell Arizona: now a true ghost town. A week does not go by without someone telling Micquette a story of how Lucia impacted their life. Lucia's daughter/Micquette's mother, Lu became a teacher and, for thirty years, shaped countless minds and hearts with passion. The family of James and Guadalope Bourguet goes on and on, changing lives.

If you ever go to Monticello, drive out through the cottonwoods west of town. Just before the road dead-ends, lays the broken shell of a house on the right. The structure is empty: it's useful life over. Looking at the front door may see nothing special. Out of this doorway came a family that has changed their world. A legacy of honor, hope and faith walks from that door ever day.

It does not matter what your name is, where you come from or what you have had to overcome. You can make a decision to create something from nothing. You can send a dynasty out from your doorway. Jesus looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible." Matt 19:26. Now it's our turn. As for me and my God, we will send out life, creativity, hope, healing, faith and love from our doorway.

May the Lord make His face shine on you,

Mark

Half An Hour

The Secret Life Of Hubcaps

Half an Hour

I have given myself 30 minutes to write something. OK, first thing that pops into my head… a guy in a goose suite, maybe it’s a duck, I’m not sure. The kind of farm animal with a white body and yellow bill. Walking on a green grassy hill. The sky is very blue and the clouds are very white and fluffy. There is a split rail fence and sheep milling about in the area.

What I have just written does not connect to anything else in my life. My computer and desk have taken over the dining room table again. My real desk is twenty feet away, clean and ready for action.

Five dogs, three turtles, two birds, a rabbit and a fish are all within the same twenty feet. Nobody moves. I understand the Mexican concept of siesta. It is 4pm and they have all been asleep for an hour. I would like to be asleep, but I have to go to a recording session and have no time for a nap.

Sleep, sLeep, slEep, sleEp, sleeP… sounds wonderful. My ride won’t be here for 25 minutes. Sleep. Maybe just a brief nap: a power nap. Edison did it and look how he turned out. My bed is within 20 feet of me. The rabbit doesn’t care if I nap. None of the dogs would tell. Hhhhmmmm. Sleep.

I guess I didn’t need all 30 minutes to write after all.

Micah Pt. 01 My Name Is Micah

The Secret Life of Hubcaps

Four- My Name Is Micah

Once upon a time, in a city not too far from here, in a large office, in a tall building, behind a bulky desk sat a man named Big. “Find me another one, a prophet, psychic, seer… I don’t give a damn what you call it, find one NOW!” Big is handsome. The kind of handsome that raises the serotonin levels in everyone he meets. He is smart, graceful, always on the edge of a smile. Today he is not smiling. He is, however shining. Today Big is glowing with a light bordering on flame. A single drop of sweat lands on the desk in front of him. Steam rises off his temple.

The air in the room is brittle. A wrong move can break us all to pieces. I have not taken a breath in minutes. Static electricity jumps from person to person. Outside the noise of the crowd is deafening. Here, in this perfect place of class and style, it is a low roar. Right now no one in this room admits the world exists. It has ceased to turn on its axis. Evaporated into nothingness, banished from the space occupied by Big.

My right hand shakes, just a little. There is no need to hide it, as I know no one can see me in his glow. His eyes are waves, pulling me along in the undertow and pushing me away as they crash onto my shore. Now he is all about me. “Tell me everything you know about your ‘so called’ prophet.” The others use this as a chance to escape. Before I feel sorry for myself, I remember that when this is over, I will go home. They all have to come back tomorrow for another red tide.

“A busker is a street musician: someone that works for tips. You can find them in front of the Art Institute or the hallways at O’Hare.” My voice squeaked; this is not a good start. He knows this part, I’m sure. Still, he says nothing, so I go on. “I heard about her on Craigslist; the discussion boards were full of hype. ‘Micah told me the future or Micah healed my dog…’ Nothing BY Micah, who would follow someone that posts their God like qualities online? There was certainly a lot about her.” I settle into my chair as the urge to pee dies down.

“I have never had the need to believe in anything. If I was going to follow an idea or a person, Craigslist would be a poor place to start. Guess I was looking for something to write about other than payoffs and politics.” Big shows his legendary ‘I care about what you have to say’ face. I become Hervé Villechaize to his Ricardo Montalban. He drops the intensity down a notch, but remains Khan, not Mr. Roarke.

“She was trying to play a song in a pizzeria on North Clark when I finally met her.It sounded like Smoke Stack Lightning as sung by KT Tunstall. In a few more months, she would have been somebody’s ‘Next Big Thing’, with or without me. I decided I would do it myself. No matter how many times I searched online, I could not find a photo of the already semi-famous singing prophet. I expected to find someone in white robes, swaying to a sitar and sitting in the Lotus position. I found her engaging and alert. She laughed easily then. As you know, that would change. How can this Holy Wonder Gyrl be playing an out of tune guitar in a faded summer dress? She needed a marketing firm to win the world. I was too happy to help.”

“I sat at a table in my own little world. …or should I say, ‘her own little world’. Her voice was a high alto as she sang.”

My name is Micah
I was born in 1982
In the city of dreams and the Lincoln Park Zoo
Sometimes I know things
A voice from nowhere talks to me
I see things that others do not see

I Will Not Close My Eyes