The Bad Dream ; The Night Mare

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It was an island. A temperate climate may be assumed. Caribbean? Perhaps. Maybe farther north? south? east? west? Perhaps. But there were no people there. It was warm, but that’s only unnatural in the extreme climes of the world. A sandy beach shrugged its disillusion with the world. If the beach were full of people, the sound of the waves would be drowned by the sighs of relief gasped by its patrons. As it was, I lay there alone. Like a stingray, I buried my body into sand enclaves waiting for movement to pass above me. Everything seemed safe.
Lonely, yes, but very safe. The sun hung in the sky, but I was not bothered by its presence. I felt neither burn nor squint affect my being. The generous mist from the water did not cling to your skin and burrow into your bones. It generated life and feeling, but it did not overwhelm you with the beingness of living. I lay my head back and allowed my head to mould into the sand bed around me. My arms extended and nonchalantly buried, as I opened my hands to the universe absorbing its micro-vibrations.
Pulsating through my body, I could feel life. I was alive, but it was the second thought. First I felt life, then I felt alive. They are two different feelings. Their order depends on your connection to your inward being. Life stirs in you, gently nudging you into existence. But feeling alive, those are the explosions that abrasively thrash you into being. The sweet pleasure of biting down on a sore tooth. A sour orange that causes you to shrink your face in delight. The feeling when a lover lingers over your face, slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly leaning in to kiss you. The passion. The delight. The love.
It was calm and slow-moving. An eternity had passed, yet it could not have been so long. Without clock, calendar, or sooth-sayer, time was immaterial—as it always is. Hah! I could not awaken. I lay there feeling that eternity within me.
A disturbance caused me to stir. A small beast, asleep nearby, hiccoughed in sleep: yelp! yelp! yelp! The frightened being twitched at the resonance of each yel- and fell into deathly stillness at the p. I rolled over, hair falling into my face, sand raining from my body, and I placed my hand gingerly upon the heart of the beast. Suddenly the fear was snuffed and a small smile could be felt throughout our bodies. Gentle, operatic snores replaced the fear within the beast. Smiling, I moved back to the imprint of my body. In a mock outer-body experience, I smiled at the negative space. Appearing much larger than my form, I confronted the duality of the space. Here I gazed; there, I no longer was.
As I nestled into the comatose reality of being and non-being, a sound recalled me to the world-as-it-is. A familiar voice called my name. Ah, the friend-of-a-friend, for whom I nurtured a soft-spot. His mouth curved over my name and butterflies soared. Actually, they soared. A canopy of them swam from the sea and entangled themselves in the affairs of our hearts. He ran deliciously across the beach towards my unrealities. Suddenly, questions of being and non-being were throttled back as the physical world of doing overwhelmed the tenses that confused before. A new verb, if you will.
He grabbed my hand. “Hello!”
“Hiya!” I softly cooed, happily.
“I didn’t think anyone else was here.” He said. I didn’t reply. Sometimes, when you have a lot to say, nothing can be said. He looked at me, expectantly. Still, I said nothing. “Hm,” he mumbled, “so, have you heard from Agatha lately?”
“Actually, yes. We spoke yesterday about this book I was reading. But, I’ve been changing books faster than a race car driver shifts gears. Only difference is that I never finish one. Weirdly.” It was a poorly statement. Indeed, inside, I had retracted my promise to live in the present. Before my eyes Huysmans’s Paris swam before my eyes, little cafés filled the air with the merging scents of frosty white wine, freshly ground coffee beans, and petite madeleines. How does one share those thoughts? How do they become communicable?
“Right,” He said. “So, do you want to come run an errand with me?”
Compelled, I responded in the affirmative. He guided me towards a vespa. We climbed upon it and began our journey at a comical pace. Yet, now that our bodies were so close, conversation flowed easily. Is there a relational proximity that dissolves self-awareness, inhibition, and fear? Does physical presence reduce the desire to slip into the cognitive abyss?
Recently, he had been on an trip over the hills and under the mountains. He detailed how his travels had shaped him, changed him, altered his senses of reality. Now, he was different. Before, he claimed, he had just been a shell of a being. Of course, these claims always sound so mystifying and intoxicating as the speaker says them. Magical. A spell is cast over my soul because I covet growth. Growth shows passion and love for the world, an intrinsic curiosity that sparks my soul.  
I gasp at all the right places, laugh and giggle, and flatter. I share my own stories of my travels, unsure that I’ve grown at all. I feel slightly un-dertraveled, un-knowledgable, un-worthy. Occasionally, I discuss things I’ve read. Is it still my life if I’ve read these things from another’s mind? No, stop it. Pay attention.
The scenery unwinds into luscious valleys of trees. Gentle and rolling hills push and pull our bodies clumsily into one another as we drive on. This all feels safe. We arrive at a set of storage lockers. The island felt uninhabited, how can there be storage lockers. As we dismount the vespa and check our teeth for bugs, we walk towards the lockers. A key glimmers in his hand.
He looks down at me from his tall, graceful stature. I lift my hand towards his with the key, but he pulls this one away from me. He opens his palm and shows me the key.
“We have to deliver a package. We’ll have to go into the waters and swim to our destination,” he says. I do not question this. We walk into the centre of the maze of lockers. Fearing a minotaur, I keep track of the twists and turns. It would be ludicrous to start unravelling a ball of yarn now! We arrive at the locker. He attempts to steady me with a meaningful look, but I am not prepared for what is inside.

A sea of white.

Package upon package of what seems to be a drug. “Cocaine,” he whispers. I am not sure I can back out now. I swallow and, eyes wide, I nod. He does not tell me that he has to do this to save someone. Nor does he tell me he is doing it for the money. He just does it. I do not question it. Remember? We changed verbs. He lifts the package and places it in my arms. He grabs another package. I sweat and suppress a soft chuckle—the yarn seems less ridiculous now.
The journey back to the beach seems less easy-going. Of course, everything has changed. That is glaringly obvious. A cloud of being trapped eclipses all earlier feelings of freedom. To be or not to be is irrelevant. He tells me that we’ll both swim with a package to the next island. The waters are free from any threat and not cold. In fact, he says steadily, they’re quite warm. I don’t ask how many times he’s done this. How many love-sick friends he’s tricked into this. But I wasn’t tricked, I didn’t ask. I never asked.
I dove into the water. The warmth of the water immediately warmed my soul. One cannot continue to feel overwhelmed by fear and anxiety when they reach their element. Submerged, I swam. The water parted and played with my hair. Gentler than wind, the water kissed my skin and urged me forward. Swimming was beautiful. Fear was an unrecognized concept.
We reached the next island. An island surrounded by choppy waters. Inhospitable. I wondered how cocaine could serve anyone on this island. But the thoughts were short-lived. The water powerfully jostled us as through we were in a bowl of jello on changing fault lines. We arrived, and he took the package I brought with me. He left me, and he disappeared inland. He returned. He brought coconut cookies and coffee. We sat in silence.
“So,” I choked out, breaking the silence, “are we going back?” He studied my face for some time. Perhaps it was too indefinite a question—leaning towards abstraction. How do we go back from that? He answered my question in the practical and literal sense:
“No. We go home.”
***

We arrived home. It felt broken. Everything. As I walked through the front door of my house, hair tangled and free flowing, I saw them. The police had camped outside my door.

Reality. A real location. Real consequences. Cops stood in lines…endless lines of donut-chewing cops. Coffee cups littered the street. A true crime, I thought. Surely, not what I did.

I walked into the kitchen—sobbing. Barely able to breathe, the pressure of the truth collapsing my lungs. I tried to explain as my parents stood around me. I could not speak. I saw it all spiralling into nothingness. Negative space triumphant.

Again, another outer-body experience. The scene played before me. The music of the scene was full-bodied, like the taste of a rich-flavoured chianti. The actual sounds of the scene muted, as the violins wailed their truth over all. Slowly angelic voices cried their sorrow. Their implicit judgement over badness telling the audience how to see the scene before them.

She deserves this.

Where was the beast who would awaken me from this nightmare?

—end.

Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars

Source: Buzzfeed

Recall the words you’ve read, well and true,
For, one day, they’ll be asked of you,
Chime them back with zeal and truth,
Memory is a frivolous quality of youth,

She enchanted lines and sang with grace,
In her, words sweetly dance and deeply embrace,
To memorize the words of those before,
Was something she had little, anymore,

She hid in fear of being found out,
Imagining they’d wonder just what she was about,
But, to her, phrases were not so easily memorised, 
For, they oft took on many a subtle disguise,

And phrases are not just words stacked together,
There are letters that are joined and tethered,
Sounds and magic combine to depict,
Those rascally words that you’ve picked.

Beneath those letters matter is revealed,
Elemental truths, spiraled and congealed,
Sup at the table of earthly delights,
There you’ll find words oft lost in the night,

Like stars appear bland in the sky full of clouds,
Words seem silent until they are shouted out loud,
Swirling in murky desires and forgotten wars,
Droned and confused by many a chauvinistic bore,

Beguiled by journey and distant arrivals,
Penning words to challenge and surreptitiously rival, 
Climbing over letters only to stumble in brambles,
Choosing slow contrition over which we amble,

Blow away the fog before your eyes,
Reach and look towards the night skies,
Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars,
For these particular words are ours.

My Freedom on Wings

<<Read here>> (click here to hear me read it)

I used to sing out loud, waiting for you to hear, 
I used to write sweet words, to draw you near,
I sang a song that only your soul should have heard,
Even so, I was lost in myself, gravely self-interred.

It took me time to push the daisies from this earthy burrow,
Rising stiffly, just under the surface, from six feet below, 
I stretch and groan, a song to salute the sun and skies,
Slowly opening long-closed and sight-forgotten eyes,

The world is new and full of rich abstract colour, 
Awoken from a deep slumber, where senses were duller,
Apprehension and anxiety that once burbled steadily,
Dissipates as my mind eases to the calm of the slow sea,

Infinity may not be compromised from the mortal abode,
Endlessness consumed as digesting time slowed, 
You delicious curls rivalled the Odysseus’s godlike brow, 
And you snarled and hissed, face resting in scowl,

The tears that flowed from your eyes were laced with hate,
For a many an age, I deluded myself to lust after fate,
When we danced, my hand met your hand, your hand on my waist,
Always expecting, always demanding my smile remained chaste, 

The years past us by, dust settling like snow on those curls,
Tears dropped from my eyes, more precious than pearls,
You pushed me and pulled me, I was a doll on a string, 
But I’ve finally grown them, my freedom on wings,

In, I breathe, Out, I breathe. Snow melts at my pyre, 
Spring suspires life from the putrid, festering mire,
Towards the depths, I feel my body contract and inflate,
This is the choice of a lifetime—a pearl or fiery gate.

I am free now, after all of this time; 
Saddled to lyric and many a rhyme;
I bellow the fires that alight from within,
And cradle the pearls as I begin again. 

From the Earth to Kiss Our Skin

Hear it read << here >> 

 

Cold air combs my hair; it turns my nose to ice,
I remember those days, filled with the warmth of vice,
There was hardly sunshine, but there was wind,
Energy that flows from the earth to kiss our skin,

The bricks crumble as they hold up our lives,
Like bees selling honey to mortgage their hives,
Glass lets us cut into the lives of those we ignore,
Instead of seeking entry through their front door,

Dishes pile as we breathe and conspire,
Entwined in our bed; this lust is dire,
Our minds drift to forests, where fairies dwell,
Green covers all life, animating this sweet dell,

Walking upon moss that sponges and frays,
Sipping the sweet smell of wild floral bouquets,
Stopping to drink the water that drips and drops,
Hushing as we see the lone bunny hip and hop,

Hand in hand, we are borne into movement,
Solace warms our soul in this anagogic ascent,
We rise above the earth’s vibrating energies,
Forward and returned like the tides of the bluest seas,

We make our own warmth as we urge, together, on,
Awaiting the sweet, milky skies that precede dawn,
If our hands are cold, our spirits are tenderly anchored,
Swimming for an eternity, finally reaching the shore,

Rising and falling, desire dances upon your lips,
My spirit escapes me—-

—-spiritless, in a moment, eclipsed,

Life grows in the moss, as love flows from the sky,
Silence falls as mother earth hums a last, sweet sigh.

 

-fin

Flotsam and Blossom — A woeful recollection

“How do you do the things that you do?”
I asked her, softly, whispering my shame into
Unopened petals of virgin blossoms,
Disregarded chastity of undesired flotsam,

“I do the things I do as well as I may,
Fighting the dragons, only I can slay!”
She cheerfully trilled; not a note of distress,
Unflinching smiles marked her face as fearless,

I fought as she did; slaying yet swaying;
Always wondering if I was overstaying,
Time; marked, counted, outlined, outgrown,
Floating, passing, drifting, away, alone.

“How d-do you do the things that you do?”
This time I stammered as my voice grew,
As soon as my doubt escaped my lips,
My courage retreated, forever eclipsed,

Dismay drowned my heart as quick sand,
Lungs filled with terror—breathless on land,
Tell me, I cried inside, how? why? when? where?
Tearing at the collapsing walls, I offered a wild prayer.

Fall upon me, one by one, droplets of falling sand,
Mirthless as trickling water, heavy as wet land,
Consume my breaths as I respire and swear,
I am brave; I have courage; I do, most defiantly, dare!

Perhaps, today, I am left to feel raw and un-mended,
Checkered by demise and love consummately blended,
I may never know how you do the things you dare do,
For I see a dream that I alone must pursue.

It floats along, a ship of gold-drenched masts,
Pirates dare to dream as this flag sails past,
Oceans deep swallow paths from before my eyes,
Ne’er once listening to my heart-wrenching cries,

Words muddle the scene I have in mind,
Making me search with no treasure to find,
Lost at sea in a world of wordless voices,
Empty passions based on impotent choices,

“How do you do the things that you do?”
I asked her, softly, whispering my shame into
Unopened petals of virgin blossoms,
Disregarded chastity of undesired flotsam.

 

–fin

To hear it read, click me

Spiritual Debut of the Murmuring Heart

Pressing thoughts deliberate their untoward will,
Crashing relentlessly from wall to windowsill,
Rays restrained from filling dark fissures of thought,
Expanses of desert drinking up all I have got.

Level the field that engulfs the sea of squandered souls!
‘Don’t do that!’ they brazenly chide and they scold,
Leaving the empty unconnected—like stars with no signs,
Expecting us to forget the agéd power of the divine.

Warmth is a feeling often served to the bitterly numbed,
As our limbs pine and our dreams needle to overcome,
My fearless hero! Brave the storm of abject ignominy,
Mending the broken walls of shame by nurturing dignity.

Remember dear heart….

Love is a phantasm that swims into the depths of the bay,
Just as it soars infinitely, farther, up, and away,
It refuses to be held in the palm of one single hand,
For there it has little room to stretch, grow, and expand.

Like the pressing forces that mark the point of no return,
Hand in hand, the meaning of love is less easy to discern,
Fingers interlaced, woven together so they may never fray,
Palms pressing into one another, as fruitful souls sing and sway.

Cherish the crosses and noughts that expose your fears,
For it’s easier to live a life without love that’s austere,
Miserly counting the affectionate dissonances,
Instead of writing one of the world’s great romances,

Whisper your secrets from the depths of your murmuring heart,
Erratic, muted tones that, together, morph like abstracted art,
Let it be seen by someone, without further ado,
All you can do, angel-mine, is bring love to your spiritual debut.

 

-fin

edit:
To hear it read… click ME

Whereupon I was Abruptly Awake…

It was safe and warm; languished and determined.
The darkness was omnipresent, and it was welcomed,
Lo!              A start from the heavens cracked through the air,
Throwing souls into Styx without the slightest care.

Towards the skies fearful voices shrilled,
Awaiting irresolute dark prophecies to be fulfilled,
Moaning mothers with lost children cried,
No tears; no wet faces; cries with eyes dried.

Fear enveloped slumbers that were comfort thus,
Crackling ice; relentlessly giving away Nature’s trust,
Warmth ebbs at the door of tears and wretchedness,
As though we were waiting for God nonetheless,

Bellows of water crash through the scene,
Ice crystals like diamonds shimmer and gleam,
Sublime; maleness; sweat and desire; 
Piercing my heart with a soft-whispered fire.

S t i l l n e s s …

with warmth

Notes spring forth; birds of a feather,
Freeing our minds from fear’s heavy fetters,
Grasping to hope and clinging deftly to bravery,
Submerged in the now gentle waves of imagin’ry.

Sweetness to taste the Dionysian  phantasm,
Angst and serenity divided by frightful chasm,
Hold my trembling hand up to your reflection,
Telling with touch and tender distraction.

Sleep sweet angel, who fears the starless night,
Whose wings won’t melt as you fly without fright,
Into the heavens, towards Apollo’s first light,
Mirth filling your soul with cared-for delight.

~~ fin

Untitled 31/10/13

I used to breathe in the cold air,

Slurping on the edge of despair,

Drinking in the enchanted dotted sky,

Despondent laughter that my dry eyes belie.

To fly into the skies and drink the nectar,

Having tea and cakes with this or that spectre,

Displaced and stateless: I am liquid, solid, and gas,

Strong as brass, but more delicate than glass.

When light shines through me, I am violet tears,

As rain passes me by, I am indigo puddles,

I am skirted by wind; I turn blue with love,

Heat flashes around me; I remain jaded,

Deep yellow breaths of hurricane gusts,

I am orange with envy as I drink sweet wine,

I am Red as I am read.

Upon a platter the small mouse nibbles,

On a parchment, these are but cheap scribbles,

Bacchus provides the feast and paper,

Ending thoughts as the flow of wine tapers.

~fin

Storm’d Heat

Scratching the graphite into the page.  Stomping your soul into the earth.  Dreaming your essence unto an universe of an unravelling infinite expansion of a helical dance.  Driving your soul downwards and your essence upwards and outwards.  Feeling energy surging from your fingers and into the day-dreams that soothe your wayward mind.

Lapping oceans clammer to hug the shore, “just one more inch,” she cries as she forcefully reaches to hug the earth she so desperately loves.  Mother Earth crumbles unto the ocean floor circumventing her waves.  Rains fall and mists away from broiled earth.  Falling and rising; cooling and heating.

Purposeful desire aches in his soul as he holds tight to fortune’s cruel wheel, over which he has little control, but he still holds onto it desperately.  Fortune spoke, one, two, three, four, five, six.  Fortune speaks, but her voice is graveled from having, for so long, been engaged to the earth as she rolls onwards:

The body and mind and essence all unravel into different territories.  Connected to the earth as she walks; sway, sway, sway, sway.  His eyes draw her being into his being.  Her love is hidden, far beneath six feet down, but much higher than heaven’s highest mount.  When her heart is stirred, she feels her heart race from all its hidden places, and her head becomes light as euphoria overtakes her.  Still carefully treading the road, wary of fortune’s lines, she closes her eyes as she breathes in hot, wet air.  Her lungs are filled with heavy air, but she is not made bloated by it; instead, her lungs release breath by breath through her nose, ears, mouth, and eyes.  Her lips give long-lasting kisses to dreams as thoughts pass by.  Her eyes gently hug each vision as they hop away like young puppies in a field of daisies.  Her own world is filled with feeling and heat and emotion and dreams, ever surrounding her being, ever clinging to her as burrs bite wild hair.  The world shuts off, but remains.  The world is her.

He cannot see what she sees, for it is the unseen.  He cannot hear what she hears, for it is the unheard.  But he breathes what she breathes as they breathe life into each other.  He feels what she feels as they meet in space and time.

Words into being.  Words blend thoughts and worlds as the graphite nestles into curves and lines of life and death.   the muse breathes.  the muse thinks.  the muse be-mused.  the muse is power.  the muse is statuette.  the muse blinks.

the muse sways as her body sings the melodic delirium she was lauded to whisper once more.

 she is unto a world of her own.  she feels the vibrations of the world below her and the sensation of the heavens and stars above.  she feels the clouds of emotion and wonder and imagination and curiosity.

he knows not what to do.

she knows not of it.

whilst she regards the stars, and her mind amongst the stars; ad infinitum.

The Pedagogical Son Returns….

I would like to preface with the comment that learning, obtaining knowledge, and having time to read and reflect is an incredible privilege that I value and honour to the highest degree.  It is my deepest wish that our canons of knowledge can be informed by varying perspectives that either enrich understanding or destroy wrong assumptions.  Of course, that may seem a ‘Whiggish’ approach to knowledge, assuming that we are always progressing, but I am not sure where I stand on the matter yet, so I have to begin somewhere.

~~

This story is not a horror story of unfulfilled dreams.  There is no true pessimism, but a desire to note that there is uncertainty.  The parable, The Prodigal Son, has a clear goal.  Humility and respect for our parents (or God) is the utmost importance.  But also recognizing that you can return home if you are ready to repent, and have understood why you were wrong.  Yet, I’m not sure there is such a simple ending in real life.  So, this story of the Pedagogical Son asks the reader to consider if one can return from the halls of learning, and whether or not there is anything to return to?

~~

I once dreamed that I was walking from afar.  No.  This is not my story.  It is the story of the  individual, who, like Darnton’s Grub Street motley crew, are seeking entrance into the cathedral of knowledge.  It begins in the desert.

The air is hot and dry.  The urge to burst with anticipation is infinite.  Anticipation for death. For life.  For water.  The future is uncertain so we cannot know what will occur.  There is desire for action, but one can only walk onwards.  Continuing the motions of life but without any sure indication that he is making the most of his path, or where that path may even lead.  The terrain is comical in its ironic heat, He thinks.  It reminds him of snow that has been trampled with rough ice patches.  His feet ache, but instead of being numb with an icy cold, they burn from pain and the heat that the sun gives the earth.  “Gives the earth,” He thinks, “such an awkward statement…”  But he dwells no more on the philosophical implications.  He is not fighting to survive. No.  This is not a story of man against nature. No.  For surely, man is part of nature.  Are earth and nature mutually exclusive terms?  Is man excluded from nature?  Arguments of modernity would suggest so.  But He doesn’t believe it is so.  Man is what he wants to be.  He is his choice.  He is restricted by various things; being lost is one of those things.  Yet, he can still choose to act.  He can lay in the sun and flatten himself against the earth, ready to be absorbed.  He is thus part of nature.  Or, he can try to persevere, and, in doing so, learn the terrain.  He is thus part of nature.  No different than a marmot scurrying along the Alps.

He encounters such a marmot-like animal who greets him.  Encouraged by this friendliness, he taps his hat in respect.  In a bird-like voice the marmot invites him to tea.  He, curious, accepts this invitation and follows the polite animal to tea.

“Buttered bread with honey then?” Marmot asks He.

“Delicious.” He responds.  He looks at Marmot slightly abashed, unsure of his fear and anxiety.  “Do you have many visitors?”  He asks?

“Just those who are lost,” Marmot pipes, “but they usually find a way, or another.”

“The right way?” He asks, hopefully.

“Who can say.  Some take the left, others the right, still others up, and sometimes the mole goes down.  But all I can say is that they’ve left here.” Marmot chuckled.

He drank the hot tea, enjoying the test of heat that the sun pressed upon him.  The delightful sweat that ran down his face and chest and arms seemed to remind him of life.  He carefully ate the buttered bread with honey so as to be polite.  But He was curious.  He had so many questions to ask, so much he wanted to learn and to know.  How could He ask?

“What are you thinking of?” Tweeted Marmot?

“I am afraid to ask, or admit…” He whispered. He persevered, “How is it you are out here? Do you not find the task of making tea in this heat so daunting?  Do you not wish to leave? To go home?”

“This is my home,” said Marmot carefully.  “I have no wish to leave it at the moment.  I may some day, but not right now.  The tea I make to my own taste.  I prefer it.”

“Oh,” He replied.  He had not gotten the answers he was looking for.  He wanted to know more, to be told something that could show him the way.  Perhaps he was not asking the right questions.  “But do you know which way I should go then?”

“That is not for me to say,” Marmot smiled.  “You, like many before you, want me to tell you what to do.  That would be unfair because there is much yet for you to do and learn on your own.  If I were to tell you what to do, you would lead a superficial existence until you obtained that goal.  But if you set your own ideal, one that acts phantasmically, that shifts and ebbs in your own anxieties, you will find that you have lived.”

He considered.  “Then you suggest that I act.  That I do what I choose?”

Marmot smiled. “That is not for me to say.”