12-08-2014, 12:00 AM
12/6-7/14 Castle Noble Story, Small Stories.
The kingdom was ruled by an aging king, and the succession to the throne was not settled, it was not a matter of eldest inherits, but the most competent. I was one of the two Sons of the king. My brother was the more military brother, and took delight in hunting the stags and creatures that inhabited the forests. I was the more sociable one, who took time to study, and speak to people, and made a study of strategy and ruling. A War had been raging, a long, grinding affair. A great victory had been one, and so, the elder brother was returning, to celebrate and to appear at a feast for the two of us, at which time the decision on ruler-ship would be announced. The castle was a buzz of activity, and I waited for my brother, to greet him when he rode on his horse, through the gates. There was a warmth in the air, it seemed like early summer, there was a buzz of insects, the smells of food baking, the frantic activity of the servants and soldiers. I smiled, when the knights rode into the castle, dusty, tired, but triumphant. I felt more secure, and happy, because they had returned.
After refreshing himself, and changing into court clothes, my brother came to greet me. I too had retreated to my chambers, to make myself ready for the meal in the evening, the feast was several days away. We exchange pleasantries, and embrace, and quickly the steward ushers him to meet with the king. He seems troubled, absent, but is pleasant, perhaps a bit too pleasant, but I brush that observation aside. MY room, my chambers, consist of a long rectangular space, one part dedicated to sleep, and full of what I consider treasures. Sorcerer items, books, scrolls, objects of energy that spin and turn. Paintings and tapestries on the wall. It is, in some way, a place of honor, where treasures are brought for me to learn from, and in which I create. Although I too can fight, and use a sword, my passion is understanding, a deeper sort of challenge.
The next morning, as if for relaxation, my brother and some men leave for a morning hunt with hounds and a trumpet. I wake leisurely, my dream explorations have left me tired, and needing a large meal and time to consider. I walk in an inner courtyard, near a fountain. My brother has returned, and he has killed a white stage, I see a taxidermist removing the antlers and the hide, and the cook is waiting for the meat, to be added to the feast. Again, he seems troubled. MY brother asks me, if I will allow him to sleep in my chamber, to help him resolve something, to be near the energies I have crafted and studied. I do not hesitate, I say of course, even though, I know that is the seat of my power. I will rest in the guest chambers, for the time he is here I tell him. He pauses. He asks me, if I truly know what it is I offer, and the sacrifice it may be. I do not understand, not really. I say “of course”, however. He takes my arm in a clasp, and looks me straight in the eye. He says, tomorrow, before the feast, he will take me into the “deep woods” to “ride the green paths” to “show me our heritage”. A secret, perhaps, something he has learned at war. Again, I am struck by the feeling of...not understanding, the deeper aspect then the words. This leaves me feeling troubled. I leave for the guest chambers, In another wing of the manor in the castle, and look at my hands, almost like a meditation, and soon, I am sleeping in a large overstuffed chair.
As long as I remember
We've marched across this land
(Oh, oh, oh)
Reached for a new horizon
Pulled by the killing hand
(Oh, oh, oh)
All fed up with lies
The time has come
To break these chains and fly
Here we stand, bound forever more
We're out of this world, until the end
Here we are, mighty, glorious
At the end of the rainbow
With gold in our hands
When I wake, I go to find him, for the ride. As I am walking the silent stone corridor, in this less used wing of the manor, I begin to hear noises. Sounds of battle. There are three dark, robed figures, uncanny, I think of them as dark elves, magical. With wicked looking swords. For each Of these hooded figures, there are two human females, amazon like, with golden swords, and helmets with wings, similar to Valkyries. They are, murdering the guards, and the servants. I do not thing, and I do not hesitate. I am wearing a sword, more a dagger, but also have the power of my being, which is not in
an object. Without asking, or contemplating, I begin to fight, and I strike quickly and decisively. Soon, all of the robed figures, who were using lightning and energy as a weapon, are slain. When they die, the cloaks become flat, like they have melted. The Valkyries, are not as fearsome as opponents, almost as if they were the seen ones, to distract. I fight them less forcefully, but the do not relent, and soon, 4 of the six are slain, and two are knocked down, hurt, but not dead. I am in a shifted state, im seeing energy, time, stories in every stone, every noise, time itself seems different, as is my state of awareness. One of the Valkyries has black hair, and seems to be moaning. One is dark blonde, and that one is silent. No quarter can be given, that seems to be a law of the kingdom, be live or die in defeat. I have come next to my chambers. And I look, shocked, when I see every single object, every book, every mote of dust has been stolen. It is bare. A feeling of loss, not for the objects, but for my essence, so profound, an anger, perhaps. There may be more assailants, I dimly hear noise in the distance. I catch a glimpse of the brother, hiding, crawling from behind some stones. He looks at me, and there must have been a quality to my gaze, he shrunk, and slunk off, away from the fighting sounds. One of the Valkyries had vanished. But the golden hair one, not her hair was black with gold highlights. And it was awake.
I am between myself, and the non thinking space I was in during combat. I feel it, look at it, and there is some attraction, physical if such can be said of dreams, but there is a collapsed, vulnerability, hat also stirs something protective, and yet, this does not stop the rage, or become, an emotion, its simply observed, inside me. Before I know it, I have reached down, pulled it up, and, it seems kissing, although I can not sense a mouth. Something passive, firm and yielding, scared and hopeful, but very subtle. I begin to resonate. I take it, and a robe of the vanished elf figure, and go into my room, even as more fighting has erupted around me. I seal the door behind me. My body, I feel, it is sexual, but also numb, like ice more then fire, but not unpleasant, it matches my inner state. A building feeling. A circle, recursive, of energy, this must be a mouth, a hand, in a place which must be the front of the female, or the back, a place to hold, a place to release, a curved form, subtle emotions, almost numb, but also electric. I do not want to stop, we are on the robe it seems. I duly note, the quiet outside. An hour of this. The door. Somebody has the key. The Stewart opens it. They saw were i went, but now the steward speaks. “this has gone on long enough. You brother told your father that you took one, to humiliate, as is your due, but now it is time to kill it, it is done.”. The woman, or whatever it is, is now firmly attached to my leg, connected. I understand it now. I know my brother, the fool, had done something, that brought these in, to kill. But all of that is an aside. What this is, is energy, of a sort, bound to the elves in robes, for a purpose. But that purpose is done. What it is now, is another thing, trusting, hope, uncomplicated. And I like it, there is a mystery, and link. I will not kill it, or detach it and stab it, if I even can. I can, I know, but I will feel less then I feel now. To my surprise, the steward smiles, and shows rows of alligator teeth. It is what he wanted to hear. He raises his arm, and darkness falls over me, like I was knocked out.
War between him and the day
Need someone to blame
In the end, little he can do alone
You believe but what you see?
You receive but what you give?
Caress the one, the never-fading
rain in your heart - the tears of snow-white sorrow
Caress the one, the hiding amaranth
In a land of the daybreak
Apart from the wandering pack
In this brief flight of time we reach
For the ones, whoever dare
I am before the throne, held down on my knees. The Valkyrie spirit, I see the energy, but it is attached, with a green lattice, to me. Separate, but connected. The kind looks at me with anger. I see the brittleness, the haughtiness, and foolish pride in his face. “Detach it, and kill it, or be judged, striped and turned out. I look around at the hard faces of the guards. My brother, has his head down, looks up at me with a miserable guilty face, then looks down at his feet. I see, wrongness, in things. Like the kind, not wise, full of pride and rigidity for rules, and war. The petty thoughts, mockery of faces, which a day before, were kind, celebrated me as a leader. He publicly tells me to refuse, is to denounce him, this is my only chance. As I speak, a spell is woven. Me defiant. A tomb, with a sword, broken, in dishonor, my name carved, forgotten, in a poor grave on the moors. This hardens me. MY state, shifts even more. A voice, a god, I think it, giving me strength, merging with my short, crisp words. I tell father I will not, I answer to a god, not him, an old spirit, father gird. (a demigod from some book who was a patron of peasants and justice). I thing that is who is merging with me in the moment. The fathers face turns purple, spittle out the corner of the lips. “So be it, you are denounced, and a traitor, and have chosen you fate”. Once again, I fall into blackness, the steward is waving his hands, his evil smile is the last thing I see, it grows and grows until all is darkness. I am in a blank space, and then, I am not at all. Blacked out, even in dreams.
Lacrimosa dies illa
qua resurget ex favilla
Rites of brutal violence
Tears of broken innocence
Chaos and intolerance
Cum resurget
Pater lacrimarum
Seven raging epic wars
Seven towers bleeding stone
Seven sins for his reborn
Cum resurget
Pater tenebrarum
I come to, in a forgotten garden, by a small swampy area, green, but sickly, by an old section of the walls. The steward, who us my executioner stands before me. When I wake he smiled. “so you are back, it would have been easier if you had not woken, but, I will admit, this too has its satisfaction”. I am immobile, I can not move. I am covered by a red/blue sticky latticework, and in it, are these things like rotten blueberries, all over, these nodules. “your execution” beams the steward. I wonder to myself, why does it not hurt, I speak to the Valkyrie spirit, and ask if she knows of this, if it hurts, it does not she tells me. I look up confused. “Make no mistake, now you are bound, soon, a day, an hour, the lines, of acid, they will burn through your energy. The blueberries will grow, and you will burn with the heat of sickness, and you will, certainly, die”. “An abominations death, fitting, poetic. I can be an artist too” and smiles evilly. “However, before that, I am compelled to ask you a third time, rule of three and all, will you detach and kill that thing?” The look I give says it all, but then, grudgingly, I speak. “They did something wrong, let them in. This one, was energy, put to use. But I can see, a peasant, a simpler spring energy, taken, bound into a form, for a purpose. But without the will to do, was anothers. Innocent, neutral, I will not kill it, or send it away for another too. I like it...I....” “Good”, the steward interrupts my words, “I didn’t think so, formalities can be so Tiresome.” “Now that that is settled, I shall activate the acid and be done with you. And your family. He laughs. It is clear, that, the brother, the father, are fools, unaware. One consumed by pride, one by hidden fear under the nobility. They will die, see all fall away, rather than admit being wrong. Serves the fools right, I decide. Waiting for my death. A tragedy, but I can see more now, an inevitable one. Flawed characters, myself included. He raises his hands, exactly like the dark elf priests, just to let me know. Power slowly builds in a small object, one of my objects, taken from the room. The moment before it strikes, I hear laughter, and whistling, from the other side of the pillar I am next too. The steward hears nothing. And then, enters, the God.
Sleeping sun:
Sorrow has a human heart
From my God it will depart
I'd sail before a thousand moons
Never finding where to go
Two hundred twenty-two days of light
Will be desired by a knight
A moment for the poet's play
Until there's nothing left to say
A trim, neat, somewhat short man, carrying a shepherds staff, walks around the corner as if by accident. At his side, is a well groomed dog, a Shepard dog. The man is young seeming, perhaps no more than twenty it seems, with sandy blonde hair. He is wearing a neat green vest, crisp, the color of forest leaves in summer. It has large, oversized buttons. His pants are a color more like golden straw, but mised with some green and brown, but not quote mustard. His shoes. His shoes dont make scense, pointed, but seemingly, made of wood. It is not father gird, that much is clear. Hes whistling to himself. In a single fluid motion he raises his staff and burns the steward to ashes. He then stops and smilesat me/us, and raises a hand and the rotten blueberries and acid web flames and falls away in ash. I am struck by how lighthearted, and, well, not stuffy he is. I... Me, speaking with his awareness in me, was stuffy, and serious. He, himself, the actual raw thing, is nothing like that. Is vibrant. I ask bluntly if he is a god. He will not answer, or say what one he is if so, just smiles and chuckles. “Seems I came at just the right time, funny how I did that, in the story we wrote...almost like a literary device” and laughs. He stops and pats his dog, then looks back up at me, he is feeling my thoughts, I know, the outside parts are almost, for fun in some way. In response to my thought, which was along the lines of “how convenient and a bit hack writer like he says. “Well, truly, there is no reason to Re-Reinvent the wheel, that gets tedious, an activity for its own sake”.
The Valkyrie sees him, and kneels lowers head. Which is quite a trick, as its no longer a separate thing from my leg, in connection, I still feel that numb energized feeling, although without the mouth and hand aspect. He just stands, in my awareness, inside, for a moment. He answers another unspoken question. “I heard your prayers...you did not know them for what they were, but they were, prayers, in a way. For weeks, months, possibly forever. This is the time, and this is the dream, I come, to show it. A story. This is, if you must know, chapter three of a 4 book series” and laughs. I mumble something, and he says he saw, hears, heard everything, like a story, in this context. “i am actively seeing your awareness right now, and walks up to me, and answers some question “to look after the perception”. Then he turns to the Valkyrie, who has detached somewhat from my leg. “Now to see hers...its not so straightforward a thing, given the nature behind the energy but let us see.... Toe nails...or is it Tonals... and lizards!?” “Now that is unexpected!” “but he adds, the unexpected is all that can be expected” another laugh. Looks back at me and just says “yes, let us go”. I start to move, and the Valkyrie spirit is separate again,m not clinging I suppose. He tells me “I suppose you should wake up, and take your notes, its important to you, this will continue...as it continues. Four books, different genres, its a puzzle!” he laughs And I wake, but wake to another dream.
I wake sitting on a couch. There is a party, and it feels late, a party still going on, in a quiet, tiring way, at three am. I need to right my recall, and im doing my pre waking exercises. But people are getting loud again. I open my eyes. My brother, uncharacteristically, is holding a wine glass, full of red wine. I hope they didn’t get my bottle of 2 buck chuck i'm saving for sometime midweek! No, this wine tastes better. Lighter. I know this, because my brother stands next to and over me, chatting to some girl, his hands are waving, and wine spills from the glass, onto my face. I open my mouth, and it spills in, most the glass. It tastes good, like tangy, slightly sour nectar, essence of vino. Wake. Wake. I wake, still tasting the wine, as real as my pillow. I touch my face to see if it is sticky/wet, but no, just the taste. I sit up. Turn on my light, and right in detail, carefully. It is 3:30 am. As I suspected as I dreamed, three hours had passed. I close my eyes, turn of my light, and go back to sleep.
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
We met down on the fort of Rio Grande
We met down on the fort of Rio Grande
Eat the salted peanuts out of can
Eat the salted peanuts out the can
Dreams after this, are more disjointed, less real, more like they have been recently, or what I call in between fragments...in between the crisp dreams like the one above, which happen once a month or week, depending on my state. The first dream of this nature, or at least that made it into my awareness, involved tubes. Tubes full of stars, space. As if space existed in branching tubes, like veins. At the center, an “undiscovered country, the heart”. Slowly, as if resolving from stardust, it formed something themed around star trek. Old ships, the old enterprise, new ships, latter imagining. All infested, save the oldest, by “bugs”. A decaying, corrupting mass of spores. The oldest ship, hunted the newer ones in the veins, growing ever closer to the heart. I stood on the old enterprise, looking out the view screen, at the “heart of the universe”. A shell of bright light, and then, something unknowable beyond. Three of the plague ships come then, and a great space battle ensues. At the end, the old enterprise is whole. I watch a wave of energy, hit the nacelles of the new enterprises. The sheer off, and the ships, broken, fall into the light, and burn, like insects on a bug lamp. Then, I am in a single rectangular room, like the chambers before. Empty of all things. I know this, and this alone, bare, alone, can penetrate the heart. As I cross the event horizon, and fall into the singularity, (I determined the heart was a black hole). I see the quantum strand reaching out, that formed the veins full of stars. My room fills with stardust, and I lose cohesion.
I am preparing, to travel by air. To take a flight. I pack, but pack lightly. I call others. I eventually go to the airport (no security it seems it goes quick). There is apprehension. About the plane, and its ability to transit. Some planes have only two rows, some more. There was no clear guarantee, before boarding, if the flight would make it. I board the plane. I sigh in visible relief. There are seven rows of seats, it is a wide body plane, it will have sufficient range and volume. I relax. A bug. A bug dressed as man, dressed similar to me, but not me, a bug. Unseen by others. But plane is large enough, when it splits the shell of human form, it will no rupture the plane. I sit, and keep an eye on it, for the moment it emerges. Company, I soon have company, it meets on the flight, takes seats. The bug is not close to splitting, it is not its season, so it will no infect this flight, it is heading to a different spot to emerge, it is in transit. Regardless, we can not miss this flight, no time, no margin left. The trip. A shopping mall. A santa. A mall santa. Food, I gather food, feed mall Santa, and my company. The food is not for now, it is stored, like a whales blubber, for “next season”. Thin. Myself, and the company, have grown thin, as if, we have come out of some sort of famine. But we will recover. The insect man, briefly transits this space. He...he will not end up, to release the spores, here. But we can not ride, can not be close, when the “traitor emerges”.
Oddly, latter, time has passed. I am in the same flying room, now the walls are clear. I think of it, as a joke, as “chitty chitty bang bang” named for the “Absolute LACK of sound, and tactile stimulation, of cource!”. This makes me chuckle. This room, and me in it, are flying without anything else, moving it, no logic. In this room, I have a task. To recreate the things lost, better, to repair, and re form. More specifically, to recreate the proper positions inside the veins. I am reminded of the blueberries on the lattice of acid, but this is not a web, its inherent in....the universe inside the veins. The first on is hard. It takes me until NEXT Tuesday, so it is, and is not, done now. Removed threats, and then simply leave.
The work is done, for this night. I am vaguely hungry, but it does not seem so important to me. My “sister” takes me to something like a mid sized arena, enclosed, it can hold about twenty thousand people. And the stands are full. We, are a bit disappointed. She, I, was going to put on a event. I ask a man, he says that...these chefs, will set up at random unscheduled times, they got here just before us. The stand on a stage, and make pizza, flipping the dough, noodles. Not demonstrating HOW to cook, making a show of the ACT of cooking. They also, feed people. The entire stadium? I look more carefully. The people in the bleachers, are flat. Not real. They respond, but they don't move. Like living holograms. The ones alive, are the people sitting in rows on the white folding chairs, on the field. They are all old. Seniors, slow. Many were world war war veterans, eighties, nighties in age. Old men and women. The chefs, are all middle aged. The food looks bland. But the chef’s offer it. One does not have to pay, one can leave a bit of money. I have none, but when I go to look, a chef looks at me strange, then smiles, hands me a plate. But he spices mine with red pepper, the chicken primavera, so it is more suitable to me, not being old. I take it to my seat, which now has a bench. I slowly chew the chicken and noodles. And appreciate the spice it was, indeed, bland. As I chew. My sister reads me a letter she got for me. It was from Washington state. From childhood time, to now. MY past mailed it, my kindergarten past. She reads it to me as I chew. When shes done, she hands it to me and I look. The words swirl, become a dream on the paper. Where I lived, was called federal way, one of the places. It has changed. More industrial on the outskirts. A lock, and the ocean, and industrial waste, nutrients. Salmon runs. But not an issue, its separated. But there is less dream space on edges of city. I look in the channel, the green algae from nutrients, and watch them flood it into the Puget sound to clear the water, so it does not become stagnant. He friend, name forgotten, who wrote me, tells me she imagines. (she had one disabled small arm as I recall). She tells me she knew I went to California when we moved, we moved back. She has not died, but she is sad, will be. Do I remember building the little elan too fort for her, in the woods in the field in back of our houses. I do remember, now. She thanks me, the letter is hard to send. She is still 5. She is writing to me as a five year old to someone 30+ years elder, but still, that person. This is hard for her, So she is going. Her PS was, she is not sure she is still alive, or is still five. But the city has grown. So she suspects she may be alive. She still loves me, eventhough, at that age, we did not know what that word in the way an adult would. But it was still real. In time.
On a day like today
We passed the time away
Writing love letters in the sand
How you laughed when I cried
Each time I saw the tide
Take our love letters from the sand
After the letter, I wake for the day.
The kingdom was ruled by an aging king, and the succession to the throne was not settled, it was not a matter of eldest inherits, but the most competent. I was one of the two Sons of the king. My brother was the more military brother, and took delight in hunting the stags and creatures that inhabited the forests. I was the more sociable one, who took time to study, and speak to people, and made a study of strategy and ruling. A War had been raging, a long, grinding affair. A great victory had been one, and so, the elder brother was returning, to celebrate and to appear at a feast for the two of us, at which time the decision on ruler-ship would be announced. The castle was a buzz of activity, and I waited for my brother, to greet him when he rode on his horse, through the gates. There was a warmth in the air, it seemed like early summer, there was a buzz of insects, the smells of food baking, the frantic activity of the servants and soldiers. I smiled, when the knights rode into the castle, dusty, tired, but triumphant. I felt more secure, and happy, because they had returned.
After refreshing himself, and changing into court clothes, my brother came to greet me. I too had retreated to my chambers, to make myself ready for the meal in the evening, the feast was several days away. We exchange pleasantries, and embrace, and quickly the steward ushers him to meet with the king. He seems troubled, absent, but is pleasant, perhaps a bit too pleasant, but I brush that observation aside. MY room, my chambers, consist of a long rectangular space, one part dedicated to sleep, and full of what I consider treasures. Sorcerer items, books, scrolls, objects of energy that spin and turn. Paintings and tapestries on the wall. It is, in some way, a place of honor, where treasures are brought for me to learn from, and in which I create. Although I too can fight, and use a sword, my passion is understanding, a deeper sort of challenge.
The next morning, as if for relaxation, my brother and some men leave for a morning hunt with hounds and a trumpet. I wake leisurely, my dream explorations have left me tired, and needing a large meal and time to consider. I walk in an inner courtyard, near a fountain. My brother has returned, and he has killed a white stage, I see a taxidermist removing the antlers and the hide, and the cook is waiting for the meat, to be added to the feast. Again, he seems troubled. MY brother asks me, if I will allow him to sleep in my chamber, to help him resolve something, to be near the energies I have crafted and studied. I do not hesitate, I say of course, even though, I know that is the seat of my power. I will rest in the guest chambers, for the time he is here I tell him. He pauses. He asks me, if I truly know what it is I offer, and the sacrifice it may be. I do not understand, not really. I say “of course”, however. He takes my arm in a clasp, and looks me straight in the eye. He says, tomorrow, before the feast, he will take me into the “deep woods” to “ride the green paths” to “show me our heritage”. A secret, perhaps, something he has learned at war. Again, I am struck by the feeling of...not understanding, the deeper aspect then the words. This leaves me feeling troubled. I leave for the guest chambers, In another wing of the manor in the castle, and look at my hands, almost like a meditation, and soon, I am sleeping in a large overstuffed chair.
As long as I remember
We've marched across this land
(Oh, oh, oh)
Reached for a new horizon
Pulled by the killing hand
(Oh, oh, oh)
All fed up with lies
The time has come
To break these chains and fly
Here we stand, bound forever more
We're out of this world, until the end
Here we are, mighty, glorious
At the end of the rainbow
With gold in our hands
When I wake, I go to find him, for the ride. As I am walking the silent stone corridor, in this less used wing of the manor, I begin to hear noises. Sounds of battle. There are three dark, robed figures, uncanny, I think of them as dark elves, magical. With wicked looking swords. For each Of these hooded figures, there are two human females, amazon like, with golden swords, and helmets with wings, similar to Valkyries. They are, murdering the guards, and the servants. I do not thing, and I do not hesitate. I am wearing a sword, more a dagger, but also have the power of my being, which is not in
an object. Without asking, or contemplating, I begin to fight, and I strike quickly and decisively. Soon, all of the robed figures, who were using lightning and energy as a weapon, are slain. When they die, the cloaks become flat, like they have melted. The Valkyries, are not as fearsome as opponents, almost as if they were the seen ones, to distract. I fight them less forcefully, but the do not relent, and soon, 4 of the six are slain, and two are knocked down, hurt, but not dead. I am in a shifted state, im seeing energy, time, stories in every stone, every noise, time itself seems different, as is my state of awareness. One of the Valkyries has black hair, and seems to be moaning. One is dark blonde, and that one is silent. No quarter can be given, that seems to be a law of the kingdom, be live or die in defeat. I have come next to my chambers. And I look, shocked, when I see every single object, every book, every mote of dust has been stolen. It is bare. A feeling of loss, not for the objects, but for my essence, so profound, an anger, perhaps. There may be more assailants, I dimly hear noise in the distance. I catch a glimpse of the brother, hiding, crawling from behind some stones. He looks at me, and there must have been a quality to my gaze, he shrunk, and slunk off, away from the fighting sounds. One of the Valkyries had vanished. But the golden hair one, not her hair was black with gold highlights. And it was awake.
I am between myself, and the non thinking space I was in during combat. I feel it, look at it, and there is some attraction, physical if such can be said of dreams, but there is a collapsed, vulnerability, hat also stirs something protective, and yet, this does not stop the rage, or become, an emotion, its simply observed, inside me. Before I know it, I have reached down, pulled it up, and, it seems kissing, although I can not sense a mouth. Something passive, firm and yielding, scared and hopeful, but very subtle. I begin to resonate. I take it, and a robe of the vanished elf figure, and go into my room, even as more fighting has erupted around me. I seal the door behind me. My body, I feel, it is sexual, but also numb, like ice more then fire, but not unpleasant, it matches my inner state. A building feeling. A circle, recursive, of energy, this must be a mouth, a hand, in a place which must be the front of the female, or the back, a place to hold, a place to release, a curved form, subtle emotions, almost numb, but also electric. I do not want to stop, we are on the robe it seems. I duly note, the quiet outside. An hour of this. The door. Somebody has the key. The Stewart opens it. They saw were i went, but now the steward speaks. “this has gone on long enough. You brother told your father that you took one, to humiliate, as is your due, but now it is time to kill it, it is done.”. The woman, or whatever it is, is now firmly attached to my leg, connected. I understand it now. I know my brother, the fool, had done something, that brought these in, to kill. But all of that is an aside. What this is, is energy, of a sort, bound to the elves in robes, for a purpose. But that purpose is done. What it is now, is another thing, trusting, hope, uncomplicated. And I like it, there is a mystery, and link. I will not kill it, or detach it and stab it, if I even can. I can, I know, but I will feel less then I feel now. To my surprise, the steward smiles, and shows rows of alligator teeth. It is what he wanted to hear. He raises his arm, and darkness falls over me, like I was knocked out.
War between him and the day
Need someone to blame
In the end, little he can do alone
You believe but what you see?
You receive but what you give?
Caress the one, the never-fading
rain in your heart - the tears of snow-white sorrow
Caress the one, the hiding amaranth
In a land of the daybreak
Apart from the wandering pack
In this brief flight of time we reach
For the ones, whoever dare
I am before the throne, held down on my knees. The Valkyrie spirit, I see the energy, but it is attached, with a green lattice, to me. Separate, but connected. The kind looks at me with anger. I see the brittleness, the haughtiness, and foolish pride in his face. “Detach it, and kill it, or be judged, striped and turned out. I look around at the hard faces of the guards. My brother, has his head down, looks up at me with a miserable guilty face, then looks down at his feet. I see, wrongness, in things. Like the kind, not wise, full of pride and rigidity for rules, and war. The petty thoughts, mockery of faces, which a day before, were kind, celebrated me as a leader. He publicly tells me to refuse, is to denounce him, this is my only chance. As I speak, a spell is woven. Me defiant. A tomb, with a sword, broken, in dishonor, my name carved, forgotten, in a poor grave on the moors. This hardens me. MY state, shifts even more. A voice, a god, I think it, giving me strength, merging with my short, crisp words. I tell father I will not, I answer to a god, not him, an old spirit, father gird. (a demigod from some book who was a patron of peasants and justice). I thing that is who is merging with me in the moment. The fathers face turns purple, spittle out the corner of the lips. “So be it, you are denounced, and a traitor, and have chosen you fate”. Once again, I fall into blackness, the steward is waving his hands, his evil smile is the last thing I see, it grows and grows until all is darkness. I am in a blank space, and then, I am not at all. Blacked out, even in dreams.
Lacrimosa dies illa
qua resurget ex favilla
Rites of brutal violence
Tears of broken innocence
Chaos and intolerance
Cum resurget
Pater lacrimarum
Seven raging epic wars
Seven towers bleeding stone
Seven sins for his reborn
Cum resurget
Pater tenebrarum
I come to, in a forgotten garden, by a small swampy area, green, but sickly, by an old section of the walls. The steward, who us my executioner stands before me. When I wake he smiled. “so you are back, it would have been easier if you had not woken, but, I will admit, this too has its satisfaction”. I am immobile, I can not move. I am covered by a red/blue sticky latticework, and in it, are these things like rotten blueberries, all over, these nodules. “your execution” beams the steward. I wonder to myself, why does it not hurt, I speak to the Valkyrie spirit, and ask if she knows of this, if it hurts, it does not she tells me. I look up confused. “Make no mistake, now you are bound, soon, a day, an hour, the lines, of acid, they will burn through your energy. The blueberries will grow, and you will burn with the heat of sickness, and you will, certainly, die”. “An abominations death, fitting, poetic. I can be an artist too” and smiles evilly. “However, before that, I am compelled to ask you a third time, rule of three and all, will you detach and kill that thing?” The look I give says it all, but then, grudgingly, I speak. “They did something wrong, let them in. This one, was energy, put to use. But I can see, a peasant, a simpler spring energy, taken, bound into a form, for a purpose. But without the will to do, was anothers. Innocent, neutral, I will not kill it, or send it away for another too. I like it...I....” “Good”, the steward interrupts my words, “I didn’t think so, formalities can be so Tiresome.” “Now that that is settled, I shall activate the acid and be done with you. And your family. He laughs. It is clear, that, the brother, the father, are fools, unaware. One consumed by pride, one by hidden fear under the nobility. They will die, see all fall away, rather than admit being wrong. Serves the fools right, I decide. Waiting for my death. A tragedy, but I can see more now, an inevitable one. Flawed characters, myself included. He raises his hands, exactly like the dark elf priests, just to let me know. Power slowly builds in a small object, one of my objects, taken from the room. The moment before it strikes, I hear laughter, and whistling, from the other side of the pillar I am next too. The steward hears nothing. And then, enters, the God.
Sleeping sun:
Sorrow has a human heart
From my God it will depart
I'd sail before a thousand moons
Never finding where to go
Two hundred twenty-two days of light
Will be desired by a knight
A moment for the poet's play
Until there's nothing left to say
A trim, neat, somewhat short man, carrying a shepherds staff, walks around the corner as if by accident. At his side, is a well groomed dog, a Shepard dog. The man is young seeming, perhaps no more than twenty it seems, with sandy blonde hair. He is wearing a neat green vest, crisp, the color of forest leaves in summer. It has large, oversized buttons. His pants are a color more like golden straw, but mised with some green and brown, but not quote mustard. His shoes. His shoes dont make scense, pointed, but seemingly, made of wood. It is not father gird, that much is clear. Hes whistling to himself. In a single fluid motion he raises his staff and burns the steward to ashes. He then stops and smilesat me/us, and raises a hand and the rotten blueberries and acid web flames and falls away in ash. I am struck by how lighthearted, and, well, not stuffy he is. I... Me, speaking with his awareness in me, was stuffy, and serious. He, himself, the actual raw thing, is nothing like that. Is vibrant. I ask bluntly if he is a god. He will not answer, or say what one he is if so, just smiles and chuckles. “Seems I came at just the right time, funny how I did that, in the story we wrote...almost like a literary device” and laughs. He stops and pats his dog, then looks back up at me, he is feeling my thoughts, I know, the outside parts are almost, for fun in some way. In response to my thought, which was along the lines of “how convenient and a bit hack writer like he says. “Well, truly, there is no reason to Re-Reinvent the wheel, that gets tedious, an activity for its own sake”.
The Valkyrie sees him, and kneels lowers head. Which is quite a trick, as its no longer a separate thing from my leg, in connection, I still feel that numb energized feeling, although without the mouth and hand aspect. He just stands, in my awareness, inside, for a moment. He answers another unspoken question. “I heard your prayers...you did not know them for what they were, but they were, prayers, in a way. For weeks, months, possibly forever. This is the time, and this is the dream, I come, to show it. A story. This is, if you must know, chapter three of a 4 book series” and laughs. I mumble something, and he says he saw, hears, heard everything, like a story, in this context. “i am actively seeing your awareness right now, and walks up to me, and answers some question “to look after the perception”. Then he turns to the Valkyrie, who has detached somewhat from my leg. “Now to see hers...its not so straightforward a thing, given the nature behind the energy but let us see.... Toe nails...or is it Tonals... and lizards!?” “Now that is unexpected!” “but he adds, the unexpected is all that can be expected” another laugh. Looks back at me and just says “yes, let us go”. I start to move, and the Valkyrie spirit is separate again,m not clinging I suppose. He tells me “I suppose you should wake up, and take your notes, its important to you, this will continue...as it continues. Four books, different genres, its a puzzle!” he laughs And I wake, but wake to another dream.
I wake sitting on a couch. There is a party, and it feels late, a party still going on, in a quiet, tiring way, at three am. I need to right my recall, and im doing my pre waking exercises. But people are getting loud again. I open my eyes. My brother, uncharacteristically, is holding a wine glass, full of red wine. I hope they didn’t get my bottle of 2 buck chuck i'm saving for sometime midweek! No, this wine tastes better. Lighter. I know this, because my brother stands next to and over me, chatting to some girl, his hands are waving, and wine spills from the glass, onto my face. I open my mouth, and it spills in, most the glass. It tastes good, like tangy, slightly sour nectar, essence of vino. Wake. Wake. I wake, still tasting the wine, as real as my pillow. I touch my face to see if it is sticky/wet, but no, just the taste. I sit up. Turn on my light, and right in detail, carefully. It is 3:30 am. As I suspected as I dreamed, three hours had passed. I close my eyes, turn of my light, and go back to sleep.
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
We met down on the fort of Rio Grande
We met down on the fort of Rio Grande
Eat the salted peanuts out of can
Eat the salted peanuts out the can
Dreams after this, are more disjointed, less real, more like they have been recently, or what I call in between fragments...in between the crisp dreams like the one above, which happen once a month or week, depending on my state. The first dream of this nature, or at least that made it into my awareness, involved tubes. Tubes full of stars, space. As if space existed in branching tubes, like veins. At the center, an “undiscovered country, the heart”. Slowly, as if resolving from stardust, it formed something themed around star trek. Old ships, the old enterprise, new ships, latter imagining. All infested, save the oldest, by “bugs”. A decaying, corrupting mass of spores. The oldest ship, hunted the newer ones in the veins, growing ever closer to the heart. I stood on the old enterprise, looking out the view screen, at the “heart of the universe”. A shell of bright light, and then, something unknowable beyond. Three of the plague ships come then, and a great space battle ensues. At the end, the old enterprise is whole. I watch a wave of energy, hit the nacelles of the new enterprises. The sheer off, and the ships, broken, fall into the light, and burn, like insects on a bug lamp. Then, I am in a single rectangular room, like the chambers before. Empty of all things. I know this, and this alone, bare, alone, can penetrate the heart. As I cross the event horizon, and fall into the singularity, (I determined the heart was a black hole). I see the quantum strand reaching out, that formed the veins full of stars. My room fills with stardust, and I lose cohesion.
I am preparing, to travel by air. To take a flight. I pack, but pack lightly. I call others. I eventually go to the airport (no security it seems it goes quick). There is apprehension. About the plane, and its ability to transit. Some planes have only two rows, some more. There was no clear guarantee, before boarding, if the flight would make it. I board the plane. I sigh in visible relief. There are seven rows of seats, it is a wide body plane, it will have sufficient range and volume. I relax. A bug. A bug dressed as man, dressed similar to me, but not me, a bug. Unseen by others. But plane is large enough, when it splits the shell of human form, it will no rupture the plane. I sit, and keep an eye on it, for the moment it emerges. Company, I soon have company, it meets on the flight, takes seats. The bug is not close to splitting, it is not its season, so it will no infect this flight, it is heading to a different spot to emerge, it is in transit. Regardless, we can not miss this flight, no time, no margin left. The trip. A shopping mall. A santa. A mall santa. Food, I gather food, feed mall Santa, and my company. The food is not for now, it is stored, like a whales blubber, for “next season”. Thin. Myself, and the company, have grown thin, as if, we have come out of some sort of famine. But we will recover. The insect man, briefly transits this space. He...he will not end up, to release the spores, here. But we can not ride, can not be close, when the “traitor emerges”.
Oddly, latter, time has passed. I am in the same flying room, now the walls are clear. I think of it, as a joke, as “chitty chitty bang bang” named for the “Absolute LACK of sound, and tactile stimulation, of cource!”. This makes me chuckle. This room, and me in it, are flying without anything else, moving it, no logic. In this room, I have a task. To recreate the things lost, better, to repair, and re form. More specifically, to recreate the proper positions inside the veins. I am reminded of the blueberries on the lattice of acid, but this is not a web, its inherent in....the universe inside the veins. The first on is hard. It takes me until NEXT Tuesday, so it is, and is not, done now. Removed threats, and then simply leave.
The work is done, for this night. I am vaguely hungry, but it does not seem so important to me. My “sister” takes me to something like a mid sized arena, enclosed, it can hold about twenty thousand people. And the stands are full. We, are a bit disappointed. She, I, was going to put on a event. I ask a man, he says that...these chefs, will set up at random unscheduled times, they got here just before us. The stand on a stage, and make pizza, flipping the dough, noodles. Not demonstrating HOW to cook, making a show of the ACT of cooking. They also, feed people. The entire stadium? I look more carefully. The people in the bleachers, are flat. Not real. They respond, but they don't move. Like living holograms. The ones alive, are the people sitting in rows on the white folding chairs, on the field. They are all old. Seniors, slow. Many were world war war veterans, eighties, nighties in age. Old men and women. The chefs, are all middle aged. The food looks bland. But the chef’s offer it. One does not have to pay, one can leave a bit of money. I have none, but when I go to look, a chef looks at me strange, then smiles, hands me a plate. But he spices mine with red pepper, the chicken primavera, so it is more suitable to me, not being old. I take it to my seat, which now has a bench. I slowly chew the chicken and noodles. And appreciate the spice it was, indeed, bland. As I chew. My sister reads me a letter she got for me. It was from Washington state. From childhood time, to now. MY past mailed it, my kindergarten past. She reads it to me as I chew. When shes done, she hands it to me and I look. The words swirl, become a dream on the paper. Where I lived, was called federal way, one of the places. It has changed. More industrial on the outskirts. A lock, and the ocean, and industrial waste, nutrients. Salmon runs. But not an issue, its separated. But there is less dream space on edges of city. I look in the channel, the green algae from nutrients, and watch them flood it into the Puget sound to clear the water, so it does not become stagnant. He friend, name forgotten, who wrote me, tells me she imagines. (she had one disabled small arm as I recall). She tells me she knew I went to California when we moved, we moved back. She has not died, but she is sad, will be. Do I remember building the little elan too fort for her, in the woods in the field in back of our houses. I do remember, now. She thanks me, the letter is hard to send. She is still 5. She is writing to me as a five year old to someone 30+ years elder, but still, that person. This is hard for her, So she is going. Her PS was, she is not sure she is still alive, or is still five. But the city has grown. So she suspects she may be alive. She still loves me, eventhough, at that age, we did not know what that word in the way an adult would. But it was still real. In time.
On a day like today
We passed the time away
Writing love letters in the sand
How you laughed when I cried
Each time I saw the tide
Take our love letters from the sand
After the letter, I wake for the day.