It begins like this

It’s night out… warm wind, cold air. Feeling duality as a sense rather then an idea is nothing short of bliss. I stand far away from the laughing hearts and drinking minds. The golden light makes the shelters a warm ember on the floor of a fireplace. Mountains fragment the sky, beckoning me large scissors to cut and separate the earth from the heavens. I smile. Everything in its right place.

            Under dime store Christmas lights they sit and play. They forget even their own script they are so deep undercover. It saddens me to know they are trapped. I am more saddened to know that I still too haven’t read my script.

            The sand below my feet speaks- soft grains brushing past each other all locomotion and hush. I bend down to touch its old wisdom. Hair falls on my cheek, it’s nosey; it too wants to hear the sands tale. Like I, it too desires to be regaled with more mystery and magic. My palm connects to the earth, my fingers spread open wide, ready to grasp in my web each and every morsel of its side of the story.

            The sand has an ancient voice coupled with tones of pitch from the vast catalogue of tongues it carries bites of. I close my eyes and the let the blackness of my lids seep in. For a moment, I am here, there, and everywhere all at once and the instant I am confused by the sensation, I remember my lids and my brain sends lines of light upon its black screen to comfort my infant soul. I lay down prostrate, stomach first chilled by the sudden temperature change, then soothed by the waves of sand. Ear, thigh, to toe I touch the ground. Like a child at story time, I wiggle about to make myself comfortable for the tale ahead.

            It begins like this…

            Strangely it seems I’ve been doing this my whole existence. Nothing much else really. Telling this same tale to you people on countless occasions, truly thinking you’ll hear it properly and get the whole blasted thing right. Sometimes I change the characters, sometimes I change the scenery, sometimes I even play around with the plot elements on a very elementary level- and still you don’t get it. I presume its because you don’t hear well, or perhaps much truth is lost in translation… maybe this time I’ll teach you my language. At any rate, it is what it is, and what ever it is, is good.

            But that’s not what you wanted to hear now was it? That isn’t the story you want told. All right, let us start over then, shall we:

            Bright night start light, it begins all over again, this dove takes a phoenix flight. Hear the motionless dreams of deep sky objects footfall so swift past our cold twelve a.m. noses. Let your lips turn upward in their joy knowing the strangeness of the times. Sit back and allow the work begun upon this collage. You’ve earned that degree in level one hundred and forty four jigsaw- that kind of prowess doesn’t need the top of the box.

            Music from far away snaps me out of my daze. Did I do it again? Did I hear the right tale, or did I imagine that I did? Did I hear the beginning and daydream through the rest? Where you even speaking at all? I open my eyes to the star bathing granules in my wake. My fingers inch near my face and begin drawing circles in the sand. I hear in my head, words being dictated as if I am at a computer back home months from now, or years ago, I really can’t tell anymore. Of what place my body truly is, I don’t know… it only seems that my mind is intact and sealing in this certain moments of travel. My pointer finger makes an indent in the sand, a small deepening crevice. Tiny granules fall down its cliff side into the valley below. I imagine myself straddling one, a cowboy hat in one hand, I have roped a grain of sand and riding it in its own world. Tiny me looks at big me and wonders why I need to be so big? Big me looks down and wonders why I need to be so small.

            “All the better to see all things with,” my sand grain whinnies below my eyes and my thighs. All me’s smile, with our cold noses and hair wild. Our eyes meet and we share something, a memory I think, then it fleets away as fast as the shooting star in the sky that catching my ADD eye.

            Again pulled back. Oh sand what are you trying to tell me? Really now! This is absurd! I can’t keep doing this! Sliding in and out and in and out and in and out! Why can’t you just speak loud and clear enough so I don’t fade away from your story? I struggle with translation! I trouble with sitting still!

            It was quiet.

            My mind, I kept it still.

            I kept it blank.

            I kept it from dream.

            It was quiet.

            My mind, I kept it still.

            I kept it blank.

            I kept it from dream.

            It was quiet.

            My mind, I kept it still.

            I kept it blank.

            I kept it from dream.

            It was quiet. The music from earlier changed. No longer loud and menacing, it was a single violin caressing its strings to sing a song of loss and hope. Two ideas/emotions that reoccur: so many archetypes to keep track of, to de-feather into their skinny naked selves. What does a naked archetype look like? I imagine superman, as though he lost his powers and spent a year in a Auschwitz. All pale-skin and bones, clinging to a filthy ragged red cape crying out, “I am Superman, I am Superman!!!” No, you’re not, not anymore. Large gloved hands break through the ceiling and pick up the writhing piece of humanity by the nape of its neck. Those same large hands are joined by more large hands. They hold down the deflated Superman. A large syringe enters from above, all green and blue goo in its chamber. In it plunges into the stomach of the defeated Superman. One thumb of the giant hand is all it takes to push the fluid in. Held upon the counter, Superman’s eyes go brilliantly wide, he tries to fight as he tries to scream- his once powerful voice a gaspy rush of dead air. The goo pounds through his veins and body, leaving in its wake something different. Once dry opaque skin turns warm, full, and taught again. All features changes, Superman has transformed-









~ by ambur on July 27, 2012.

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