Oneironauts

Last night I had a dream.  You and I lived in a town at the bottom of a valley in a house made of brown sticks.  The rest of the buildings in town were sleek and modern and looked like knives.  Our house was far away from the rest, and through our window we could see the whole valley.  At the mouth was a volcano; tall like a mountain, with snow crusted on the peaks and rings of clouds circling the top.  As we looked out the window and across the valley, the volcano began to rumble and a great spout of water gushed from its peak.  The water poured down the mountain and crashed into the town.  The flood raged through the valley, engulfing the buildings and the people inside them.  As the waters reached our house I turned from the window and pressed my face into your chest.  Your shirt was green and smelled like autumn.  As we prepared to be swallowed by the flood, the water split in two and bowed around our tiny house made of sticks.  Our front door rattled and flecks of water sprayed in through the cracks and I felt your arms tense around me.  When the flood was over, we looked out our window again.  The valley was empty; no buildings or people or water.  Only us.  You and me and our house made of sticks.  And the volcano was quiet.

Memories and Mailboxes;

Tiny items are placed with care in a mailbox, buried beneath the earth, and forgotten; a yellow plastic lion, three marbles (one red, one blue, and one like the eye of a cat), a few black and white photos, and a silver bell.  The ground is soft and swallows it entirely.  Small hands pack the rusting mailbox beneath thick layers of warm, wet dirt.  It is forgotten.

Frost locks the mailbox under ground, where sleeping trees nestle their roots and wrap themselves around it.  The contents inside grow old; the pictures yellow, the bell tarnishes, and the marbles dull. The yellow lion, though gnarled and now flecked with mold, is still stoic and poised.  They remain forgotten as the ground unfreezes and freezes, again and again, until the earth is settled and the surface is calm.

No one remembers the mailbox or what is inside it.  No one remembers where it came from or that it once belonged to a pair of small, young hands.  No one remembers it has even been buried.  It exists now only in the ether of binding roots and heavy subsoil.  But sometimes, every so often, the roots will loosen their grip on the mailbox, and it is shifted slightly towards the surface.

The Old Man

 

Once upon a time there was an old man at the end of his life.  He lay in his bed, with his blankets pulled up to his chin, and waited.  His family was there, mourning and crying appropriately.  His granddaughter sat on the end of his bed.  Where are you going? she asked.  Away for awhile  said the old man. Can we visit? the little girl asked.  No sweetie.  Not for a very long time.  Not until you are old like me. The little girl sat quietly and looked down at her shoes.  They were black and shiny and made little *click* noises when she walked.  She bounced her heel against the side of his bed and spoke again. Is it gonna hurt? she asked him.  He smiled. Well, I certainly do hope not. He laughed then coughed, then laughed then coughed.  The old man’s son grabbed his wife’s hand.  This could be “it”, the doctors said.  He could “go at any time”.  The old man’s eyes bugged out of his head and blood sprayed from his mouth as he continued to laugh then cough, then laugh then cough.  The little girl hopped off the bed and hid her face in her mother’s skirt.  Her tiny fists clenched tiny handfuls of the fabric.  The old man’s face turned blue and a final chuckle escaped from his wet lips as he exhaled his last breath.  The old man had died.  But not really.  Not really he hadn’t.

At that moment, as his brain began to shut down and his insides began to fail him, he became the last bit of breath slipped through his lips.  He became the air and the tiny particles the air carried.  Then he grew and became his hospital bed and the electrical equipment in his room.  He became his fibers in his bed sheets and his family’s clothing.  He grew more and became his son, his daughter-in-law, and their tears.  He became his granddaughter and her golden hair, and he was the little *click* noise her shoes made.  He grew so big he was the room itself.  He was the walls and ceiling.  Soon he grew so big that the room could no longer hold him, and the old man exploded out and all at once became the Earth, and sky, and all the things he once felt “love” for, and all the things he once felt “hatred” for.  The old man stretched far and filled the emptiness of space.  He became its dark vacuum.  He stretched and grew and grew and stretched until he reached the end of the universe.  He became the universe and the universe became him.  He was beauty and love and he was loneliness and fear.  He became time and memories of moments past.  He was everything and nothing all at once.  And no,  it did not hurt.

Hung over in the morning-

  The other day I was walking back to my apartment.  It was very bright out, and I was very hung over.  For some reason I was thinking about teenage angst and college kids who join rallies for causes or use “unconventional” methods for change.  I was thinking about kids who get arrested and kids who act out against their parents and society.  I think that maybe all that really is, is the child within us dying.  To kids the world is unlimited.  We are told we can be anything- presidents, or astronauts, or famous explorers or artists.  Then we start to grow up and realized we were lied to:  the world is just a fucked up system that forces people into molds they don’t fit in.  Artists are forced to be accountants, explorers work in 9-5 jobs they hate.  The presidents and astronauts are descendants from the same money-tree, and this wealthy class rules the country.  Kids grow up and realize this so they act out against society: they run away and become train hoppers and vagabonds, they throw bricks through the windows of cooperations and army recruitment centers.  They try to change the system.  It’s like one final temper tantrum from the child within us.  Then these kids, who are now young adults, realize they system can’t be changed and just become another bitter adult at a dead end job who forgot who they wanted to be when they grew up- a princess or a dancer.  Maybe this angst is the last siren song of our dying childhood.  Maybe.

The lady and seeing the future-

I met a woman on the train who very much reminded me of myself.  She was maybe in her late forties- she grew up in New Jersey and then went away to school in Boston.  She settled down in a small town with the friends she grew up with, where they now raise their kids.  Talking to that woman I saw my future, with the people I grew up with.  It’s more reassuring than a college degree, these days.  Something inside of me knows these people that I’ve known for so long already will always be involved in my life.  We have gone through too much together now to abandon each other.  We’re still growing up together.  I think we always will be.

Iron and Stars-

Did you know that all the particles in our bodies were once the particles of stars?  The iron in our blood has existed for billions of years and came from all across the universe.  That comforts me somehow.  It makes me feel like a part of it.  We’re all part of it.

The future is a weird thing for me to think about. Most of our time is spent preparing for “the future”. But when is the last time you thought about the present?  Personally, I think preparing for the present is a much better way to spend one’s time.  Of course, it is important to keep an eye on the horizon, but sometimes it’s alright to just look around and see where you are right now.  And be.

My old friend-

I like to leave little pieces of myself in places that have the most memories attached to them; even if I’m not sure if anyone will ever find them.  It makes me feel better about moving on and growing up.  I feel like if I scatter myself in these places, I’m never truly leaving them.

Growing up is different for only children.  An only child has to learn independence at a very young age.  Most of my childhood I spent by myself, although I never really felt alone.  For me, my house had as much of a presences as any playmate.  It was anything I needed it to be; a castle, or a ship, or a monster’s belly.  Leaving it behind is like saying “see you later” to an old friend, but knowing in your heart you’ll never see them again. 

It’s the packing up I don’t like.  ”Is this important to you?  Will it fit in the box?  There is no room for that, throw it away.  Why are you keeping this garbage?”  Seeing my room empty and barren, the rest of my house a starved shell.  There are no traces of me left in it.  So I broke off two pieces.  One I hid in the closet, the other in my yard.  Someday someone will find them- or not.  ”Who is this?”  they might think.  This was me-  one time I played here and slept here.  One time I fell and skinned my knee over here.  One time I cried here.  One time I lived here.

 

See you later, old friend.

Communication studies-

Lately I have realized that life (that is, the universe) is constantly trying communicating with us.  Subtly, of course– there is no need for the universe to be ostentatious.  One just has to pay attention.

To be more specific, last fall, before summer had completely drained from New England, I was sitting in the park looking at the trees.  I like to do this– trees make me happy.  I like to look at trees and imagine all the things they have seen; the people who have sat underneath them, or climbed them, or carved their names into them.  I aspire to be a tree in my next life. 

As I looked at the trees and thought about everything that was wrong about my life, I decided I needed something to improve my karma.  Just as this thought slipped into my mind, I saw a train of Hare Krishnas making their way towards me.  They were dressed in bright orange, and had wooden beads and flowers around their necks.  They danced past me, banging on drums and tambourines.  They sang.  The last in the train, a little shorter than all the rest, looked at me and smiled.  I smiled back.

I try to pay attention.

My kitchen-

Sometimes when I’m in my kitchen I feel the ocean.  It is nostalgic- as though it should remind me of past homes or lives.  If stand in my kitchen and let my eyes drift out of focus, I can can see it; very pale, but warm and soothing.  It is calming.  I don’t know what the feeling is or where it comes from, but I welcome it.  Good vibes for an improvement of karma.

The rear view mirror of the cab-

Sometimes it’s strange looking into someone’s eyes- when it catches you off guard.  Do you ever think about that?  A set of eyes is a powerful thing.