Sunday, November 27, 2016

What's the meaning of this?

Sitting before our gate. A horse-drawn wagon of seasoned firewood. 

It belonged to a neighbor, a malicious lunatic, who had been harassing us for two decades as her meager funds and IQ would permit. I had seen the wood lying around her property. Now, here it was, neatly stacked. 

Was this a pease offering? We were not in the habit of consulting with her, and were in fact quite happy with that arrangement. 

Leaning against the wagon was an ancient motorbike with a small two-cycle engine. What is this? I had never seen this item before. Probably, it's junk. Look at the rust. Hasn't run for ages, probably. 

It kicked right off. 

I rode it down the road. We live in the mountains and I did not expect it to take me down the hill and back. 

It did. 

What's the meaning of this?

"...and further despondent sayeth not."

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Wandering Alone in a Dark City

Wandering alone in a dark city. Series of Victorian or Georgian - boxy with two floors and a portico on the second. It was just here, but in my walking I have lost it. This is the street where it was, where she was. She seemed interested - but now I hear her. She's broadcasting to a companion about me, ridicule, meant for me to hear.

Now it does not matter where the boxy Georgian was.

I go and there are others. I sit. It's lunchtime. I say, in answer to a question, no, I have no job.

Someone sitting with me says, heave to, we'll find you work. He leads me into the yard where various workers pass. Ask that one, he counsels. She is an ordinary cook. I ask her, but only to gratify my ad hoc career counselor. I am not very coherent, but she isn't listening.

Alone, I see back at table a strange object take shape under the rice and gravy. I am utterly revolted. It seems to be a male appendage!

I bolt the table. Something must be done. But what? How does one complain about such disgusting outrage?

While I'm wandering about in the courtyard I see my place has been cleared. I'm not really sad I have not that to deal with.

I have only my solitary state in a noir set of unconcerned strangers, my natural dreamstate.

From Timothy by Saphire to you!

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Focus Group



We are somehow assembled in a studio. It's a TV commercial, we are to understand. None of us comprehend how those two facts came to be, or even if they are in fact facts. Still we wait here, because, TV.  


Four of us sit all in a row. We are instructed to move our arms left, forward, down, in a very definite gesture, while singing a jingle, the lyrics helpfully whispered to us. We are told it will all make sense in the final compiled product so we do as we are told. Every member of an orchestra has a small part which does not create harmony on its own, we are told.

I am instructed to toss the contents of a bowl, apparently filled with graffiti, into the face of a smiling lady down below, remembering the jingle. It's all right, I am assured, it won't reach her. So I do as I'm told. The graffiti does in fact reach her, as anybody might have foreseen. 

I could never remember the lines of the silly song so I faked it under my breath. It did not seem to matter. 

We are next ushered into an auditorium and a pleasant lady addresses us.

"You have all been the subjects of an experiment to determine just how gullible the public can be. An anonymous political entity wondered just how far the general population might be led by an electronic leash. You have all been most cooperative and extremely encouraging. Thank you very much."

And she exits smiling through a door in the wall behind her … which immediately dissolves into wall and ceases to exist.

We sit. There is now one door in our room and it's to our rear and it is glass so we see if we turn it is an exit onto the street.

"TV, huh. "
"I prefer radio myself."
 "Did that lady say she would be back?"

Chortles. Some look around. A large room with one door. An exit. Three blank walls.

"Did that lady say she would be back?"

Still we sit.
  
🔚

From the night dawning into 19-Oct-2016. 

Monday, October 10, 2016

Traveling Mien

He wasn't sad or angry, just resigned. It was late in his season and prospects were dim. He was beaten. It was a nefarious plot they had in mind. All of them were better oriented for jail than I was. I listened, though, from the next booth. His face was red but from weather not drink. He slid to lay in the booth.

 

There is a series of bays, inlets, lakes, and they all look alike. I don't know where I am in the series of bends in the road. (This sensation has occurred before, but I don't know if it was a dream or real.)

 

On foot, I am confronted with a huge mass of apartment complexes, as far as I can see in either direction. I must trespass to continue my important journey, so I begin to climb.

 

Now on a bike, a sinister character overtakes me. Perhaps it's the trespassing. I worry about him stealing my new SE (just arrived that day in waketime). I am taken to an ancient very small room with clapboard and barnwood forming nooks and corners everywhere. He has a companion and they discuss me. (Waketime reference might be the two guys showing great unhurry in admitting me to the hospital, Ft Polk, LA, February 1965; "He's 104," said one eventually.) One says to the other, "Release him," so I slither through a small fissure in the wall and ceiling juncture.

 

The mission is a b-line hike through the jungle, clearing brush and even plane trees in our path. It's grueling. Objective is a straight path from one village to another quite distant. We grind each day, and tomorrow will look just like today.

 

Son Casey will build something up on the east meadow, he tells us. He and his crew begin. We notice that as well as grading the field, they have ground up our driveway  and taken out our fence and from the gate all along the drive. Hey, what gives? We cannot even keep a dog now!

 

He says nothing.

 

 


Wednesday, July 13, 2016

African Dreams

I am thinking of those class soaps on BBC and PBS wherein the maid or butler or indeed anyone in the manse will open any door to reveal who is there without any thought this may not be a wise move. I open the door. 

There is out on a porch an African tribe of some sort in full regalia. They are seated in a line, some seven of them, with assorted children. They are very black and one then another of the men raise their chins and moan some sort of chant with closed eyes to the effect, in my interpretation, that they are in quite a lowly state and I have personally either brought about the disaster or failed in my responsibility to provide a remedy. 

"I have the Red Cross here," I suggest. One of the dark yodelers scoffs in another harmonic wail, which I am becoming quite adept at translating. 

I close the door and retreat to the interior. As it happens, I do have the Red Cross in attendance; my Welcome Wagon hostess has brought goodies to ease my transition into the neighborhood. (I am annoyed she brought tea instead of coffee.)  As I have learned she works at Red Cross, I tell her of my visitors, expecting to be scolded for imposing on her day off. 

"No rest for the weary," she sighs. Stands and moves toward the front door. 


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