After some time I came to a beach of fine sand and an ocean that appeared to be set ablaze via the reflection of the sunset. The appearance of the ocean sedated and subdued my weary legs as I fell backwards somewhat involuntarily into a sitting position. I pulled my hands into view in front of my face and remarked to myself of how the lines across my hands looked like trails dragged in the sand. I breathed slowly as the scene around me devoured me.
As I let my hands fall to my sides and move through the fine sand I came across a hard object buried a few inches below the surface. I knew what it was before I pulled it out of the sand into my field of view – an old timepiece from some other era. The timepiece didn’t just look old, it looked other-worldly, alien, some mechanical utility that some mysterious being used for time keeping purposes. I tried to envision who would own such a thing, but I could see nothing. Like straining eyes trying to make a figure out in a very dark place, …tell me more
“Were there a thousand dreams to dream, and a thousand dreams of dreams. Where would the poet lie? And where would the dreamer cease to think? Forever and a day we live wish to live, in a world so different as this. Though who among us can say that we have fully given our heart and fist? Our heart and fist to change the world, or at least to lift the mist. The mist that covers our eyes, so thick, it glistens prisms of light sources unseen through the thicket of drifts. But here I say to you, or rather I speak quick in hisses: What difference is it if you were to see the sources of light unseen that are covered by mists if all that you truly wish know is what the prism splits upon your own instance?”
Thus spoke the wind to me.
Spoken in alliteration, nested in reason, carried through the air like a choir of whispers accompanied by a dance of earthly matter. I wear the wind’s words like a light shirt, and my mind tries to find the meaning of its poetic verses. Like a …tell me more
(Should be read to the song Moss Mountain Town from The Album Leaf)
I continue to walk through the forest until I get to the foothills of the mountains which steeply incline. I climb and I climb, at certain points reaching such landscape that requires me to use my hands to grip the earth and terrain as I traverse upwards.
I travel upward at a pace indicative that I am moving with purpose as I swiftly scale the dynamic landscape of the mountainside. As I dig my hands down to support my ascent and subsequently lift them upwards to their next anchor point some of the earthen particles on the ground grab onto me and then eventually fall back down slowly and cinematically. I wonder how long it has been since each part of the ground I touch has been disturbed, and how many years may have passed since this gravel has been brought to life by those who make use of it as they pass it by.
I wonder what life I may have disturbed by penetrating the surface of the ground, and for how …tell me more
(Should be read to the song Rano Pano from Mogwai)
I awoke to some half-concerted efforts from the daylight trying to reconcile me into the idea of jumping full throttle into the day. Damp from the sweat-induced dreams of the night I feel like I should be temperature cold, but instead I feel more fever cold. Sweaty, weak, anxious, more inclined to accept the help from strangers though more cause to be skeptical of their intentions. Like a proud pack wolf that suddenly falls prey to something larger then themselves I accept help because I cannot deny my need for survival and thus I yield to my surroundings.
“We don’t need anyone”, the wolf inside says, apparently accustomed to life as a self-reliant non-companion. “I need my dreams,” I say, “for they give me answers to a puzzle I didn’t know I was trying solve.”
“What do your dreams know of you?”, asks the wolf. “Give me a man who solely relies on his dreams, and I give you a blind shepherd guiding a sheep among wolves.”, …tell me more
(Should be read to the song “Ships in the Rain” by Lanterns on the Lake)
Such deep sleep that I dreamed I was a resident of a lighthouse on a remote shoreline. The lighthouse itself standing on the edge of a cliff surrounded by earth that was painted dark green with grass and dark, almost black, rock that clawed at the side of the cliffs. It stood against the grayish-blue clouds like a relic of a past civilization.
In the dream, I awoke in a bed somewhere within the lighthouse which also functioned as a place of residency. I couldn’t remember how I had gotten to the lighthouse or how long I had been there, as if I had just been transferred there and had my memory erased. Strange, it felt as if I was always meant to find this place – no, as if I was always supposed to be here at this point in time.
Somebody needs me.
Did I just hear my mind tell me that, or did I feel it in my chest? At any rate I climbed out of my bunk and walked towards what became a spiral stairway …tell me more
(Should be read to the song It’s Dark, It’s Cold, It’s Winter by sleepmakeswaves)
Sunset peaks its head over the edge of the mountains that I have been walking towards for the past few hours. Like an explosion in the sky moving in slow motion it expands and then slowly contracts across the slowly fading blue and black backdrop. I slowly keep walking until I come across a tree with bark like dark dry skin, a very tall trunk, and branches and leaves as complex and intentional as an ant colony’s underground tunnels.
I decide to rest awhile against the tree and eat an apple I picked along the way for a light dinner. As I eat the apple, the wind starts to pick up and I can feel the trunk of the tree moving so slightly that I can barely tell if it is the tree that is moving or if it is myself. Rhythmic – like leaning against another who is breathing slowly and peacefully I subconsciously match my breathing to the rhythm of the tree as it wanes back and forth, in and out.
I look …tell me more
(Should be read to the song September Song by The Album Leaf)
So it was that the forest became a clearing, and the clearing became a lake upon which I paused to sit awhile. The perfect reflection of the mountains and the clouds above were in the midst of being disrupted by the life nearby: bugs, birds, the wind, and me as I threw a stone across the surface. Skipping with each successive confrontation with the water though bouncing less high and producing less of a wave each time. The reflected mountains become a quaking earthquake and the clouds become a menacing storm as the water reacts to the stone just thrown as the reflection attempts to regain composure. The stone continues throughout the mountains and the clouds until it ultimately gives into gravity and sinks with a splash.
So to, do we, as people go through life perceiving our own altered reflections of our surroundings as reality until our manipulations of such superficial constructs end with a splash. Were I a …tell me more
(Should be read to the song Are We People by Tristeza)
As we wind on down the road I wonder how long it is until we realize we’ve lost our way. When did these poinsettias turn into poisonous branches? When exactly did the only light visible through the net of twisted branches and claws of oak overhead turn into sparse, ominous reflections over black ponds, illuminating watchful eyes. The opaque tiny seas of life nearby seem to be inhabited by toad statues, floating on huge lily pads. Large brush and weeds surround and protect the waters all around as tiny fireflies patrol the undisturbed waters – one thing is eerily clear: Outsiders are not welcome.
As if it were a member of the horizon the dim golden star of light ahead stays some odd hundred yards away at all times – our northern star in this mystery of dark lines and shapes. A masterpiece of mother nature’s ultimate device, she clearly has picked her sides. The star of light proves to be a destination we can …tell me more
(Should be read to the song Balabaristas by Tristeza)
Dry eyes as I strain to see how the light is painting the early day. Like a blanket over my eyes, the fog is keeping secrets of the day from me. I step forward because I cannot step through the mist and brush rocks aside with each successive step. Like an eraser the fog erases my trail – never look back, it whispers, although I try to no avail. Orange-gray sky above me that looks to be more reminiscent of a sunset than a sunrise which speaks to no specific preference – “I am both day and night, it is you who complicates things by calling me two names.” True. Though the nature of the being is affected by that which surrounds it, for the shadows of the dark and the accents of the light speak for me when I otherwise cannot.
When I reach down to find a way to transfer what I feel and what I think at times I am left with open hands and a hungry mind. Like trying to speak with a being from another world there are just some things …tell me more