We don’t remind ourselves.
But I remind myself all the time.
- About the hole
- About the past
- About my loneliness.
Some time is lost but most of it is saved somewhere inside where only you or I can find it. I can never remember how I get here but I get here just the same. And you take me there. Every time you go away you take me with you to that strange off-world[1] outside-of-time parallel universe. Then you evaporate like an Ecthroi[2] with a horrible tearing sound. So I use my needle and thread and setrock[3] to put everything back together again. And there it is. Glowing in the firmament like a live thing. Only I know that its just a photo, a picture, a part of the set, a funny scrim that shows the beauty that could have been but really isn’t (as soon as the lights go on for real).
I’m an Eskimo. You are the Hula Girl dancing mysteriously close to me without fear of getting burned. You think you can melt ice cubes but all you melt are hearts.
- Hearts of space.
- Hearts of time.
- Hearts of knowledge, and
- Hearts of passion.
Then you look at all the hearts and say, “But I wanted sugar cookies!” or “But I wanted gold pieces!” or “But I wanted someone who was kinda like you but different and yet could act like a puff of smoke when needed.” Sorry. I quit the circus. I am not Bingo[4] or Bongo or Bango.
I am all that’s real. Your nightmares cannot hold me. Your dreams fade in the light of my gaze. I am all that’s real. You are all that’s illusion. You think a snake is a good tool to use. You think that movies make it alright. You think that words or dances or silly flights of nuance will make it all right. But it’s all wrong. I am real. You are illusion.
You are the shadow on the wall. You are the sigh across the sky as the sun sinks into the distance behind a veil of star-punctured indigo. You are that one tiny second during which a child actually believes her heart directs singing spheres. I am the bubble. You are the pin. Go pop something else, will you!
I am not calling you, even though you hear me. I am calling him. Is he deaf? Maybe he is just very far away or captive in an inescapable cell or heart of gold. But still I call him. I call him.
While I tune my call, I believe he will come.
… much before it’s time to die.
Shall we dance?
[1] Bladerunner (1982)
[2] A Wind in the Door, Madeleine L’Engle
[3] The Second Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Stephen R. Donaldson
Song of the Day: Let No Man Steal Your Thyme, Pentangle
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