I startled
awake afraid, hands raised seeking a threat to strike. The sensation of weight
and confinement crowded me as I grasped at anchors to pull me away from the
dream. I remembered dirt. I remembered a small space. I remembered malice
filled eyes looking down at me. They wanted me in the small place, to stay
there, to keep me there. I don’t know what they were or what animal or
nightmare form they were part of. I do know they saw me as sure as I saw them.
Intelligent as they were uncaring. I don’t know if they were part or cause of
whatever placed me in the filling, pressing dirt but that they wanted me there
was without doubt.
I asked Diogenes
to stop barking for a moment and tell me what this dream could mean. He brought
forth a lit lantern holding it close to my face before asking me how honest I wanted
us both to be. I tried to answer but the lantern’s illumination was so bright I
had to turn away.
A hand then fell
upon my shoulder. Friendly Seneca smiled at me and asked where it was the dirt came
from. I said I did not understand as all dirt comes from the Earth, is the
Earth. He nodded and asked how is it in the Lantern’s light my hands were so clean
after digging so hard.
To them both
I leveled a finger. I need answers, not lessons! I need truth, not riddles. Be
clear or begone for I am troubled and need peace.
A sudden roar
of laughter struck my ears. I turned as the lantern changed in tone but not
brightness. A bald cliché of the devil draped in cheap black satin poked his
long fingernail at my forehead. You need
to get out more, kid. he said. You
need to relax and just take in all the angles, dig? It’s all a sideshow. Go west
find both your ticket booth and your stage.
He probably dropped them in my river,
Anton. came a voice to
the side. We turned to face a bearded man in robes. His feet and legs were dripping
wet. The dollar store Satan laughed. Your
river, my midway, Uncle Bob’s triangle, and Jim’s Dublin, you old fool.
He shops at the Scottish Rite Aid whispered the first man from the shadows.
A women’s voice, hard a railroad spike and hot as steel, shot back. Leave the comedy to those who truly
understand destruction.
Stop! All of
you! The ones in the shadows and the ones who are the shadows. Stop it! The
ones on thrones and the ones licking the best of gutters. STOP! All your voices.
All your thoughts. All your ideas! I AM A WALKING COFFIN. My back hurts and my
ears are sore from broadcasting all I have heard. I need to set you all down
and just…rest.
I sob with
fatigue and sadness. I have no map and the waves grow higher and higher.
Excuse me, pips a quiet voice. Do you know what time it is?
Yes, I
reply. But longitude is not the problem.
Then knowledge is not the answer.
That’s not a
new idea.
To continue is not new. To end is not
new. To question is not new. To be mad or angry or contented is not new. That’s
the point.
Where is the
Lantern’s light? Why can I only see platitudes now? Is this all I have
left after falling?
Material falls from a sifter. The
sifter is not falling. You have what you hold whether you see it or not.
I tire of
this Hidden Master facade. Identify yourself and explain how you are one voice when
before I was a multitude.
You have what you hold.
I need answers!
You have what you hold.
I need…You have.
