Saturday, February 27, 2016

Three: Truth Caller, Green Skin, Birthday Waters


Truth Caller

She stands straight as a spear. Young, tall, ivory-skinned. The fall of her hair: straight and long as a horse’s tail. Her clear bright eyes reach into secret places. They make deceivers squirm. They are the eyes of a truth caller.
    I know where I want her to be. I move her like a chess piece to the edge of the concourse, where the people who come here for power and show must pass. Let them see her and tremble for the consciences they left behind. She stands straight as the spear of Athena.


Green Skin

I sample the fruit before I join my hosts at the table. It is green-skinned, small and round. When I try to peel it, the skin does not readily yield the flesh. The pieces drip through my fingers. The green fruit is good eating, neither sweet nor sour.
    At the table, they give me a platter of the green fruit, already sliced. I see I am meant to eat the skin. I have brought some of the green balls with me. I bite into these, enjoying the play of teeth and hands, eating skin and all, before I take a fork to what has been sliced and prepared. I am filling with green fire.


Birthday waters

My companions and I have agreed to meet on a remote, rocky shore in the cold dawn, to make a ceremony of renewal. Our clothes are simple, homespun or merely skins, in the style of this ancient time. This is the birthday of our cause. The waters are chill, the sky is leaden, but we will perform the act.
    My place is apart from the others: a high natural platform of rock jutting out from a sea cave, above the waters, which turn and roil here as if something vast is stirring in the deep.
    I stand back now, as observer. My mind hovers above the scene like a sea bird. I see the companions who have entered the sea from the pebbled beach. They stand waist-deep, watching the man on the high ledge. I was in him, and he in me, but now there is distance between us. I will witness his passion, not join myself to it.
    There is something of the holy man about him. And the king, and the fool.
    His garments fall away from him like tree bark. He drops into the sea with his two legs pressed together. The people on the beach shriek like gulls.
    The man from the rock is gone for a long time. The others begin to doubt that he will return. One by one, they drift away, seeking warmth and food and solace.
    Only a child will see when the drowned man returns.
    On that day, the world will change. Even the child may not remember what the world was like before, except in the dreams of an old man.
     These are birthday waters.

Sometimes all the dreamwork I feel called to do is to write (or draw) the scenes that stay with me as well as I can and let them speak for themselves, as creative acts. These three vignettes came from my dreams in the early hours of Friday morning.


Patricia said...

Thank you for sharing these most delicious vignettes.

nina said...

I don´t know but I presume the man didn´t drown at all, he learnt to breathe under the water as those who after all decide to die before dying. What could be better for a man than that :-)?