Of the serpent

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/08/slithering-dreams/ ‎

I dreamt last night of a large group, a crowd, meandering around a plaza, waiting for something. That something was a speaker, or a leader of some sort, though really the ambling was aimless and random. Around the plaza was a garden, filled with large raised beds of strawberries, squash, peas, beans, tomatoes, and other assorted shoots and vines. I traipsed about the mob a while, entertaining the notion that I might fit into any number of cliques or groupings, but found no easy inlet, and settled for joining a group of friends near the garden.  As I approached, hundreds of snakes, garters and blue racers, wiggled their way through the grass away from me, as though fleeing a giant. As I neared my group of friends, they nodded and told me to mind where I sat, to avoid sitting on snakes.  Just before I sat, I brushed the grass, and several small snakes skittered away, and I sunk into the soft green of the lawn, squishing several small snakes and sending others sliding away.  We watched the plaza like a stage for a while, but nothing was said amongst these friends I’d found, and I soon grew weary of their silence and sought my own in the garden. In the center of the garden between the raised beds was a fountain, and beside the fountain, a large fluffy couch. I ambled along the edge of the raised beds towards the fountain, and the number of snakes seemed to increase with every footfall. Now they were slithering up my legs and onto my arms, falling off as I lumbered onward, and I was uncomfortable with them, though they were not biting.  I kept brushing them off, and the vines of the nearby plants transformed into serpents that snagged onto my clothes and climbed my limbs. I raced onwards, hoping to sit down on the couch and be safe, away from the gardens, but as I set down, I sat into a pile of snakes thick as spaghetti, and they began twisting around my arms and constricting me – thousands of tiny snakes no longer than my pinky, or some a cubit in length, twisting around my arms. Then they began biting. Countless pinpricks and little stabbing needles up and down my body, but the sheer weight of the snakes prevented me from standing up or escaping from the cushions of the couch. They were in my hair and around each finger, on my legs and in my shirt and pants and latching onto my forehead.

What’s strange about this dream is that it didn’t feel like a nightmare. There are a lot of different opinions on the topic of dream interpretation, but many of them cycle around topics of: surprise (it’s surprising being bitten); phallic (general serpent shape, I suppose); opportunity and being overwhelmed (especially with hoards of serpents – a lot of snakes can mean opportunity but also being overwhelmed); and anxiety. Having a lot of people in a dream, especially nameless, faceless individuals, is often interpreted as reflections of yourself. (Even with named, faced people, many interpretations often conclude those are patterns of yourself)

I took it to mean some different things, but mostly that it was an odd dream, and an odder interaction with it on waking.  There has been plenty enough going on in life to keep me overwhelmed. That’s certainly not a negative, yet I’m still exhausted and ready for a rest on a couch without snakes.

Rivers Mighty

There is beautiful land here: the Columbia gorge, the Willamette (the river why?), Mount St. Helens, Mount Rainier, the Olympics, the Cascades, the Issaquah Ridge, the national forests, the stony refusal of nature to comply with silly roads and forested towns, the bays and ocean vistas, the lakes and river curlicues – how arabesque and wavy is our world, like a dervish dance spinning or the sinuous shapes of ancient eastern art, twisting and rolling like the waves and the snakes, and the wind eddying around the minarets and parapets of time.

But every string I’ve seen possesses both beginning and end, end and beginning, even the wind whispering and the ocean waves singing, even the dreams I’m clinging to, with distant, foggy shores. Some metaphysical kitten plays with the sweater-threads of my life, gnawing, clawing, fraying its unravelling strings and deftly splitting the colors into a mess of sudden ends and new. And though it is a sweater no longer, I’m beginning to believe it’s beautiful, nonetheless. Perhaps more so, with its spontaneous elegance, an arbitrary truncation into a colorful next – a rough patch in a river makes the river leap, and where water falls, rainbows spring.

Is the river’s might in raging rapids,

smoothing the stones and leveling mountains?

or in the width of its waters gently

etching a means towards eternal seas?

perhaps her strength lies in a sleight of hand

breaking boulders into sand and hiding

around clever bends, tracing the moon’s path

through desert, forest, fields, and quiet hearts.

but no matter where it goes, it’s coming

home again, racing to the end, he sways,

tipsy and tired – greeting the ocean

with sad smiles, wondering now and then,

how poignant the sunrise and set can be,

even here, even now, even eventually

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/06/rivers-mighty/

Stories; Superpowers; Time

I was writing a story about a superhero today, because of an odd dream that I had, and suddenly it angled into an existential piece. The original dream was simply about someone who could stop time (standard stuff) and used it for trying to shoulder the burdens of the entire world. Time-stopping is a bit of a mechanism in the story, because how does the character feel when time is stopped? And as I fleshed out the scientific mumbo-jumbo behind an irrational superpower, I discovered how lonely superpowers can be.
A lot of superheroes can't function as such in normal society as an average person. Without an alter ego, Superman's celebrity and heroic status wouldn't allow him a normal job like a reporter - how could superman waltz up to a story and expect not to suddenly be the focus of attention - instead of asking questions, he'd be pestered with questions, requests, and awe that would make impossible a casual identity. And does Superman want to be identified as Superman? Or Clark Kent?
There are a few superheroes that sidestep the identity crisis, simply by making no distinction between superhero and personal life (Ironman being the classic example), but many choose a separation of person and vigilante. Of course, there are many reasons for having a secret identity, such as protecting those you love and preventing villains from finding you, but it also seems like an easy way of maintaining a normal connection with society.
In the story I was writing, the character (Elian) realizes through a traumatic experience that he can stop time. He is given the power by some sort of djinni, and told that the instant he shares his secret with anyone, he will lose his power. He can still smell, touch, hear, see, or taste, but there is no wind, smells do not travel far, he can only hear his footsteps and his own motions, if he touches someone, they don't feel it at stop-time speeds, they just feel a normal touch after he resumes time. At first, the superpower has a novelty effect: he can read books without taking up any time, or do tedious tasks without wasting time - it tires him to stop time for too long (possibly - just thought maybe there would be a downside - this is all theory crafting); then he starts wondering about the advantages of the superpower: he could be a superhero, a vigilante. At first, he considers doing so, but struggles finding any banks to stop robberies at (the future), any gunfights to put an end to. He doesn't have a police scanner, and doesn't want to sit around watching the news for events to solve - slowly realizes he gets bored with wasted time very easily.
He realizes he can sit and paint a skyline before the sunsets, even if it takes him hours; he can painstakingly describe a scene on paper while is sits there stagnant before him; he can deliberate for hours on the correct thing to say in any situation, and evaluate possible scenarios without having to make rash decisions.
But he realizes that his power isolates him. Not in quite the same fashion as some of the other superheroes, but he can't share his secret with anyone for fear of losing his power, and he can't share the time he spends with time stopped either. He hears people say, "I wish this moment could last forever" or, "this is so beautiful, I could sit here and look at this forever" and these thoughts depress him, because he can, but whenever he does, everyone else is stuck. He cannot share these moments with anyone, and they acquire a sort of stagnancy.

In the original dream, there were actually two characters. They found a djinni under a bridge, and in exchange for something, the djinni offered them each a superpower of their choosing, (though he reserved the power of veto regarding their choices) and if either of them revealed their superpower, they would lose it (except to each other). The one chose to stop time, the other chose the superpower of being able to shoulder the burden of any other being at any time (feelings like pain, stress, etc).
Both struggled with not being able to tell, and both managed their difficulty in different ways - though they could tell each other, they drifted apart and came together through their lives as friends because of their differences.

Land Octopus

I found a nice knoll this afternoon, worth a stroll and a quiet picnic, and some grass on which to journal. I didn't, the sky's allure was simply intoxicating. Drunk as the bees buzzing in the clusters of dandelions, I just smiled. I dreamed the stars in the sky were falling, and I grew frustrated at every wish I missed, until I realized the stars were streaking down the sky and crashing into my garden, burning entire rows of carefully cultivated crops.
I watched as the barrage from the heavens first decimated, then obliterated every last pea, squash, pepper, tomato, or herb I'd watered, fertilized, and meticulously weeded for weeks, months. Everything was a charred wreck, a blackened, smoldering mess that bubbled like a marshmallow fallen off the stick.
Full of anger, I rushed into the center of the garden, kicking the coals and snatching them up in my fists. It burned, but I was determined to show my ferocity, my fire, was the hotter.
Let go of the coals
Open your fists, and let go of the coals
Open your fists, anger will not solve this, and let go of the coals
Slowly, painfully, I released the coals and, kicking aside the ash that was my garden, I buried each one, the burning remnants of stars. There were no longer any stars in the sky - it was an empty heavens, a blank, black canvas.
When I woke the next morning, the coals had sprouted into flowers of all colors and heights, towering as tall as sunflowers, or huddled close like daisies, and they bloomed in turquoise, citrine, opal, sapphire, peridot, ruby, pearl, emerald, diamond, aquamarine, and garnet. Each color was arranged in rows and formed an intricate squarish-spiral inwards, towards a central flower with a brilliant amethyst purple for each petal and a golden heart. It was tall, as tall as I, and I felt it was staring into me as I stared at it.


I'm an octopus on land, and I can't feel my toes. I want to run and play, but my legs have me anchored here, and I don't have any bones. Dip your pen into my soul and ink will run, thick as blood, and stain your fingers black. So graceful in water, so fragile on land. I'll be braying like a moose in a tree until you free me stuck though I be by my own sucking immobility.

Sleepless Dreams

Last night, after hours of what I might be hesitant to call sleep, I finally lapsed into a light snooze near dawn's light. And with apple-juice chemicals seeping down my veins, I dreamed, and the semi-lucid nature of this dream elucidated the unsteady proximity of this sleep to wakefulness. Yet, I dreamed.

I was in a manor, full of family, relatives, friends. It was one of those manses you imagine when reading nobler exemplars of british literature, with chestnut trees lining the approach, a marble fountain in back, a high hedge around the lot, and all fashion of incredible landscaping that comes from a permanent staff of gardeners and absurd amounts of money. 

Of course, none of this catches the eye nearly as surely as the mansion itself, with Doric columns showing off a regal, daunting archway and gaudy threshold. The house itself is Victorian, with sash windows and the daunting facade that is nearly as much fortress as house.  

Inside, though, that is where I was.

There was a great hall, somewhere in the upstairs of the mansion, with a rounded ceiling arched along a great length. Everywhere on the walls were hangings that split between an eido-japanese and shinto artistic genre and a historical, european lineage of wall-hangings that described a pedigree back to creation in intricately painted portraits. 

The great hall was filled with people, prepared for a banquet. Food was lavishly arrayed about the long, central table, and there was eating and drinking to rival the romans or the vikings in their heyday.  But I was not particularly hungry, and craved only to explore the household.
It was a strange house. Every room centered on the main dining hall, which was the only room in the house not to touch the outer wall. The house was old, and every room contained a door to a small balcony, specific to that room, where you could overlook the grounds. Unfortunately, the constructions for these was crumbling, and I went room to room, trying to find one on which I could stand without it crumbling beneath my feet. As I stood upon each, I found myself scrambling for purchase and frantically leaping backwards into the house for safety, as the stone crumbled down into the garden.

In one room, a number of children were jumping up and down on a mattress, and laughing with glee. But there were dangerous objects clustered around the base of the mattress: knives, pins, nails, and so I shouted for the children to stop, though they would not listen. I rushed into the room and swept away all of the dangerous items, and joined the children in hopping on the mattress for a time. The mattress grew, and was large as the entire room, and the low gravity the room acquired allowed for some fancy leaping shenanigans.

Shortly thereafter, I realized someone was looking for me, someone I knew. But I knew if they found me, I'd have to explain why I left, why I was wandering - so I leapt out of the mansion and into the garden, and hid beneath a bench, behind a raised bed of flowers. 

Ash trees surrounded my hiding spot, and the scent of flowers rushed to my head like ambrosia. I heard the person who was looking for me pass, and I scrambled out of my hiding place to explore the garden. There were flowers everywhere, of every color and type. I began searching for one, a very particular flower that grew in no other place than this mansion, and found it.

It was the most sought after flower in the entirety of the world: purple and short, with petals soft as a rose, and as brilliant a violet as royalty ever wore. The stem is tiny, as short as a daisy, so the flower rides close to the ground, and the center of the flower blossom was liquid gold, like honey, and tasted sweeter.

If you plucked a flower, it would shrivel and die within a minute, the purple petals turning ashen and burning away like chaff.

But they possessed a magical allure, a siren-call that incited anyone who found them to immediately pluck them, and give them to the one you most cherished. I plucked one, hoping the same, and found how quickly those dreams turned to ash in my hands.

At this time, everyone was helping clean up from the feast, and I knew I should help. So I wandered back inside and was told to help empty giant bowls of water. So I kept taking bowls from the kitchen into the garden, and watering the flowers with the unused water.

Then I woke up.

Transitions, Dreams, or Artistry

My dreams last night were beautiful, though I remember them so poorly. There was a beautiful forest of oceanic greens and blues, waving in slender, gentle hues and towering towards the heavens. I remember there were people, great and illustrious people, illuminated from within like angels, shedding auras of gold and drinking from crystal clear waters, singing in songs that moved the waters and the wind in an organic dance.

You always wake up, of course, without knowing where the people are going into the woods and for what, or whom, they sing. But I knew they were singing for me, and it was a procession of sorts, not unlike a wedding or funeral, except with a natural festivity - a religious festival.

Today, my drawing assignment was an apple, with light shadow effects. I can tell you that after less than a week's worth of practice, I'm still quite miserable at drawing, but I can already see a little difference in my outlook on things. Really, this is a practice in visual comprehension more than mechanical aptitude. Normally, I see a door and think: "functional; means of passing from indoors into nature or vice versa; opens in or opens out" and so on. 

Already, I've noticed a fractional improvement towards, "door: crimson red with small, indentations like a subliminal window underneath a low-sloped triangular threshold. Immediately over the door is a thin, rectangular window that allows little light through due to the overhanging threshold; brass, rotund knob, and no lock; door is constructed of a light, polished wood though paint is peeling; swivels outward onto a small block patio of cement surrounded by rhododendrons, with ivy crawlers sneaking up the walls on either side of the door" and so on. But mostly, shapes and shadows, moods and tones. What can I reproduce in simple pen or pencil sketches using my current knowledge of such things?

Even though this will be a long process, I'm excited for where the journey will lead me, and already I'm enjoying my little sketchbook and flipping through the pages, noting the small improvements and mistakes as I've learned tiny new tricks.

Virgo Rosas

A small hill before the larger climb

beneath the clear-blue sky, punctuated

by a low line of clouds
crowding in purple-white against the horizon

like the shadows of mountains, erupting

in the setting of the sun -

a purple, thorny coronet
around the heavens.

I summit the wide, eagle peak

spreading its craggy, ridged wings,

bald-capped, save a fairy ring of trees - 

it pauses before flight, locked in ice

and an angel in a tee and casual jeans

prays, kneeling, desperate for some way.

daisies braided in her hair, and roses, but

she's crazed and

a little fae from the nightmare of her days

she begs for love, and faith, and light

to guide her on the path that fades.

the sun descends and the owls, too,

ask unanswered questions, who

am I, passes through my mind, 

as the beautiful girl and the flowers

in her hair, become but ghosts in the mists -

who am I, Antheia, to love thee

Antheia please

The flowers, the blooms, I can smell them heady-strong, and I'm drunk with their love. The starlings nesting in roof slats warble obnoxiously; the trees shrug the world of ice from their shoulders with deep, ancient groans; the stars glitter and parade into new locations while the sky subtly lightens her hue; but it's the flowers, the blossoms I await in my room.

The prickly roses are sleeping beauties, tulips, voluptuous lips of spring, the wildflowers showering the mountainsides paint a picture so brilliant, I discard my easel and become a boy again, rolling down slopes and beneath the willows and evergreens. Spring, spring is coming, the season of life-giving green, days where the light is greater than night.

Where baby bunnies cluster around in the tall grasses, glancing at the true blue sky between the shivering pines, and the sing-song breeze brushes past and whistles to the tune of life; as deer pause by the shimmering silver of streams and lap at ease; when the squirrels chatter with the chirping chickadees, and cottonwood seeds float along the streets and hillsides. Antheia, please, clothe the mountains extravagantly; Rhea, lady of the wilds, wrap the stones, forests, earth, and living with verdancy, and let us see something worthy of a resurrecting.

Sometimes, the loneliest of places are within the wildest of crowds full of unfamiliar faces. You catch fleeting glimpses of passing emotions like sparks from a fire, but never linger long enough with another soul for warmth. It's like a dream, in a city street full of ghosts (are you walking through or with the stream? it's impossible to tell. Is anyone moving?), and the voices and noises around could be the hiss of the wind as easily as the words from the lips of these empty, translucent beings. (am I the same ghostly figure as these? what do I look like in their eyes?) Sometimes, the most fulfilling talks are held from hundreds of miles away, and you only wish they would drag you through these crowds, or that you might fight through them together. But it's only a dream, and the sun will rise and shed new light on life if you wait long enough. 

Sometimes, the greatest joys are those where it's just the holy spirit and I, and she doesn't mind that I know not how to pray, she intercedes anyway.

Dreams and the like

I've had some horrific dreams these last several nights, though I struggle at remembering all of the pieces on waking. I only vaguely remember that each dream was discouraging (though not in the least bit frightening). I had one dream where I bought a house, but ended up living in the gazebo out back, because a canary wanted to live in the house; I had another dream where I was on a train, though I knew my destination didn't exist. The scenery outside the train grew more transparent by the moment, bleaching into white, though the inside of the train grew more spectacular in color, as though it were swallowing up the saturation of the external world and combusting in rainbows.
Whether or not the details themselves are terrible, each such dream arrived with a dreadful sense on waking.

for the she who was not anywhere
they can't see her there, autumn hair,
swinging through the city streets.
with hushes gath'ring round her feet.
how she sways, breathing sexuality,
they exclaim.
can't you see she's dancing, I say,
her joy paints everywhere -
they cannot.
their insipid stares are unaware,
reducing her to numbers, figures.
the heavens study the stars in her eyes,
as do I; polaris she seems to be.
but they see none of this.
women, they mutter,
delving back into drinks
woman, I breathe,
you're clever as the fox,
to the heart, the hound

dreams

In my dream, a headstone lies on a barrow hill, gently matted with the greenest of grasses. No rocks or stones or city-bones litter this land, before where I stand (beside the headstone). It's simple, not ornate, with a rounded top and squared-off sides, and the epitaph simply reads: here lies he who had not the bravery to believe, the heart to succeed, the courage to live or love or die, or the grace to give his life.
The ground was lightly tilled before the stone, and my favorite flowers grew there: snowdrops, bluebells, trilliums, and the purple button flowers whose name is lost to me. I bled, pained at this stark scene - is it my blood? whose blood is on my hands? why is there so much?
It is my dream, and I glance absently at my hands for days, wishing and wondering, but the sun stands still for me, and the flowers bloom most expectantly. Stooping down over the stone, I stroke lightly with my index finger the bottom of the stone. Standing back, the snowdrops seem to smile, and a few crimson roses bloom:
but he tried anyway.
Then I lay beside the bluebells and watched the stars rise, mine. Do I remember these?
My hands are clean.

Weeds

A man full of words
is a garden of weeds,
and when the weeds grow,
a garden of snow,
a necklace of tracks: it was here, my snow owl, perhaps.
Who scared it away?
~ Jorie Graham - The Dream of the Unified Field (book not poem)

I remember one person saying recently that he stopped dating a woman because she didn't have any dreams, no hopes or motive - she didn't want to do anything.  I can't comment on whether this was true or not, but I do realize that I experience similar feelings of interest in people and their journeys. I was realizing earlier how attracted my personality is to knowledge and dreams and journeys: motivation, hopes, yearnings, cravings, gut-burning, heart-wrenching aching adventures of appetites. Patrick Rothfuss posted this link, earlier today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmEbF2uhsZk
And I smiled as I admit that knowledge, understanding, wit magnetizes me, galvanizes me into a headlong pursuit of friends and ambitions.

Full of words and weeds
It's two owlish eyes staring over me
do these fingers sing across these keys
as the crickets, the nightingale, the mouse scurrying
through the brush, between the trees
who? who? precedes the swooping death
in a breath it ends, soon as it begins
pierced in the talons and watching the worldfall
beneath, a blackplate pool and bristlebrush leaves
crows cawcall - is it a prayer?
someone must the sacrifice be - no
my fingers do not sing
but for a second before the mouse's life ends
does she fly with the wind rushing by,
before one creation ends to another one feed?



I found a whole bunch of poetry books at the library, and I think my collection is a little too varied. I found some Robert Bly, some Mary Oliver, some Jorie Graham (I just discovered her), some Bukowski (mixed feelings) and some Maya Angelou. I've been really enjoying my Jorie Graham experience, actually, and Mary Oliver is simply the best.

Wind Chimes

November sidles up in a ghastly affair. Soon all is muddled, missing beneath the misting mornings, a hallowed eve on winter's frostbit hearth with ice crackling as the bones of autumn, and the trees shiver as chimes. The sun's false facade a saccharine sweetness, etching warm memories onto frozen hearts. A ghost town, ghost town, echoes in my head. Ghost town, lights down, I'm going, gone away. Watch ye the birds, veering south it seems. A warning? A mirror of nighttime dreams? None, the difference, between raven and writing desk, as night transcends, descends, and November names them now as one.
What is one day's difference? Dreams demarcate the day, a beautiful boundary. A sky so clear, a miracle blue. Oh, those clever birds, pie-wedged and pointed south. What if I might see everything tween the sky and I? Each molecule drifting, whisked and borne on the breeze; each bacteria and virus, dastardly nomads; each seed and fleck of dust, each blue-winged bird, whirligig pod, scarlet leaf - might I join the sacred dance of sky and sweeping wind?
Where art thee in this hallowed hunt so hollow? Into light all things must fall, glad at last to have fallen. (Jane Kenyon). Chime, chime, gallant graceful hills, trees - a valley sings surprise and beckon. Hither come when lost: grassy knolls and evergreens are ever green against the pumpkin patch palette of undecided deciduous leaves, and silver clouds blanket, the rook of heavens folds its wide wings around this earthly egg.
When weary footsteps plod along alone, unfound, follow these ancient trails, snaking along rivers, against mountains, home is where heart leads.
Who is it who asks me to find language for the sound a sheep's hoof makes when it strikes a stone? (Jane Kenyon)
Time approaches, recedes, with whimsy's grace and no trace of solemnity. Regal pretext, no forbearance accords the king of draining moments, seconds seeping from that shattered hourglass. Alice, dear, what's that you dream? If, when, you descend, clasping at roots and stony outcrops, the rabbit hole, I promise, promise, I'll catch you where you fall.

If one hand by yours be clasped, Father
What then is t'other for?
Breath of fire, cloud by light
Beggar me with brilliance, Lord
Blind me with keen sight
Bless, begin, bestow upon
Break beyond a fight

Phantasmagora #2

I'm a smoke machine behind a screen

what do you see?

Is it demons dancing devilish dreams?
Forgotten faces from maddening scenes?

It is the phantasmagora of your mind

what you see is what you'll find 

in me, and you, and you to me

I'm the geis of your crystal ball

Predicting your destiny

All mist and mirrors

I dreamed I missed my own birthday, and a month passed before I realized it. Everyone was shocked and subsequently upset at my lack of concern, and strove in convincing me that my neglect was appalling, and must be remedied immediately. I like birthdays, just not my own. Or, rather, there are aspects that I find tiring regarding my birthday, though I enjoy celebrating my friend's or family's birthdays. It is my little brother Sam's birthday this week - how he's grown since I left home. It's been almost 9 years since I last lived at home permanently, and he's moved from 3rd grade into his senior year of school. You can't tickle a senior in high school, or pick them up and swing them around as they giggle in glee. Senior boys don't giggle with glee much anymore. 

He's as tall as me, now, and I may be the shortest of the children before long. At least mother takes the cake on shortest in the family. There is some solace in that.
What I dislike about my own birthday is that it doesn't seem tailored to me, but tailored to a preconceived perception of what birthdays must entail. My mother asked me today what I wanted for Christmas. I said nothing, and she said, "you'll think of something by the time Christmas comes along." She loves giving, and can't understand that what I actually want, and have always wanted, was nothing. Au contraire, if I had my druthers, instead of receiving love on my birthday, I'd be sharing it. If there was a party, it would be my treat to all my friends. If there was a dinner, I'd cover all the expenses, just to gift everyone else. It seems such a strange thing, but this ideal is stapled into my psyche as the perfect birthday: the one where I bless everyone else who has suffered me a long time, and stuck with me through storm and sun.

It was a quiet day, today. The roommates were all busy, and it seemed no friends were available, which made for a day of rest. I ended up hanging out with friends anyway, but I did manage some rest first. This weekend has been quite fantastic. I got the rest I needed, hung out with friends, went to a wedding, ate delicious food, watched dazzling dancing, ran around outside, kicked around a soccer ball, treated a friend to dinner and discussed our lives, hopes, dreams, destinations. I got to read, write, drink tea, watch the purple-bellied clouds chase the sun out from on high, and a sherbet sunset in an apricot sky. I saw people I've missed, and talked to people I've not seen in some time. I wrote a letter, shared meals, listened to moving music, and talked with my mother and father (they both answered the phone at the same time. Quite cute) about the approaching seasons and times. I'm extraordinarily happy, so I wrote this melancholy poem stream-of-consciousness to represent my joy. It's quite terrible. I blame the macabre chapter of the book I was reading, but I know it isn't entirely to blame. Sometimes I write saddest poetry when at my most pleased. I understand myself better at these times. Or I'm hiding a sadness unknown to me. Probably both.

Lines in your hands reveal peach-pain webs
Spider of time, what anguish have weft
Patent divine, when choice is bereft
Our rivers of life, eddies and ebbs
Speak sister time, does love quite exist?
Palms gently shudder, an asp's poison lips
Fangs sinking deep, bleak destiny sips
Close nect'rine palm, a love hopeless fist
Faithless dear child, what melancholy this?
Confess empty silence, my peace have you cleft?
My only survival, now plainly theft
Sunder me now, from sentiment's kiss
Gently lay down this romance and mirth
Luckless I've found, nothing of worth

Regression

I was having a similar experience as yesterday until the just this evening: so many hurting friends, and nothing I seem capable of doing that helps. I'm going to steal his words, and hope he'll forgive me, for he succinctly stated what was stampeding across my feelings yesterday:
To those of you in pain and darkness (you know who you are), I just wanted to remind you of my love and care for you. If I could, I'd take us all away to some island with fresh fruit and clean waters where it is always sunny, and we could all rest and recover. For now, just remember that you are not alone.
~CB

Yesterday, I dreamed of a regression of time, where each of those I loved was losing years, dragged backwards in lifespan. I've never studied dream interpretations myself, though I find them an interesting insight into our psyche. Often times, we encode cultural symbology into our subconscious, and our dreams dredge them up in fascinating ways. What could regression of time mean? Often times it entails a pulling back, a retreating into self and a new start. It is like a self-autumn and winter, a crinkling, collapsing, dying, and hopeful rebirth - a metamorphosis.  I'm collapsing into myself like a caterpillar, praying that my next instance, I gain some wings.
The idea with the theme of regression is this concept of losing the current, losing the present and future. It's as if everything and everyone is leaving you behind, and you regress into yourself in a defensive gesture, and prepare for blooming a second time.

Spider imagery tends to indicate danger and manipulation. I'm not certain what my self-conscious implies here, but I suspect I wouldn't explain it if I knew.

The incorrect labels. I believe this is subconscious indication that I am looking at things incorrectly, that my perception of details in some aspects is wrong. The fact that the labels were placed there by opposing forces, invasive forces, indicates that I feel manipulated or deceived in some fashion. Also, the fact that I understand that these labels, stickers, signs on the trees are misguiding me represents that, maybe, I've always known they were incorrect, but allowed myself to be swayed. Interesting. Not a dream telling of my greatest days.

Garden themes: I had to look this one up, and I did look up the other ones as well because I find the study of dreams interesting, if sometimes suspicious. I sometimes despise such easy entries into my psyche. But here I am, prying these thoughts open and dissecting and classifying each one, giving my subconscious an identity. For garden, contains a sense of diligence. It's a dream and an actuation of belief, a realization of faith. The garden in my dreams was not defined, and could also imply a continued effort, a need to continue in care-taking, weeding, nurturing.

City

I'm a country child. I was born with a backyard, a garden, a large maple tree and a collection of birch trees, and all the space for running around an energetic boy needs. Eventually, we moved across the country, from mid-west chills and humid heats into precipitation and less cloying heat. We lived in a crazy house with an epic backyard, my favorite backyard of all time. We had a deck on stilts with stairs leading onto a hill that sloped down towards a creek. Then the backyard sloped steeply up towards a rickety wooden fence with planks missing (perfect for scampering out of the backyard as a shortcut to the high school soccer fields) The tiny creek was a boy's wonder: frogs, tiny waterfalls, chemical-orange colors, fizzing waters, eddies, salamanders, the smallest of fish, water-skippers. Because of the steep slope, my parents gardened in terraces, and my father built a series of descending levels on the sunlit side of the backyard. Much of the backyard was shaded by towering pines.
When I was twelve or so, we moved again, to my parent's current residence. The backyard is a forest and a creek meanders through there as well, though getting to it proves a worthy task (we were more stubborn than the brambles - we made paths). I've never lived in the city, in an actual city. I think there is something frightening about cities, and fascinating. The magnitude, the intoxicating and muddled scents that assault the senses, and the claustrophobic and unnatural meshed with the communal and industriousness. It is an ant colony with every ant its own queen, and other queens besides: queens of business, queens of religion and culture, queens of media and industry, queens of monetary value across the spectrum, and queens for each district and home.  How do you make sense of this chaos?
This is what today has been. A city. Friends suffering from hurts, panic, stress, fights, busyness, married life as introverts, changes of churches, difficult work partners, sickness, more sickness, tough job situations, shortages of money, frustrated bosses, hospital visits from fear, anger, frustration, impatience. I woke today and expected a day off, a day of peace, and I received a sensory overload of emotional angst from each friend I visited today, and worse things. It's like visiting a city and encountering a wall of smog that irritates your eyes and burns at your nostrils until you cry. You want to fix the industrial waste flooding the city, want to give life to the trees, blue to the sky and waters, vigor to the zombie-ant-workers shambling down the streets. A tsunami of hurt, and I felt dissected from it, as though I could not pierce the wall and help, only watch as an outsider.
When my friends hurt, I get nauseous. This is most particularly involving fights. When people fight, and my friends are hurt (emotionally, spiritually, physically etc) in the process - whether I am witness or not - my gut gorges on a city of its own, a city of chaos and visceral turmoil. I almost feel physically ill if the anguish is enough, and just lie in my bed praying. I have not felt so for a long time. But tonight, as friends suffer without sabbath at the mercy of endless bleeding days - does it come tonight? Will I sleep, or lay awake and stare at the window, listening to the thoughtless slapping of drops against the glass and screen.
And finally, just finally, the compelling news of the finish line, broken and reddened against the asphalt. I drew this, I think, and I knew this ended here. Too many things, too fast. I wanted one chance, I wanted to help. Is there any possible arc of time where winning was even a remote possibility?
What a night.


From space, the cities are stars, speckling the globe as candles. All these fireflies, street strobe lights -what stories these constellations? A global bioluminescence, transforming this marine world into a glowing jack-o'-lantern, an incensed thurible, a disco ball, spinning and dancing around the sun. I dreamed, last night, of a regression of time. That was my original topic.  These were the notes I wrote at 5 in the morning when I awakened from the dream:
dream: going back in time - everyone is going back in time
elms are labeled (even though they are maples)
tell dad to remind me of a quote I said: apparently my journals traveled through time?
(find the black spider of time)

Time to drink chamomile tea, curl up beneath the blankets, open the window, light a candle, read a book, and drink in the serenity of the world when everyone has retreated into themselves.


I was back home, the luscious greens of summer still wreathing the yard.  The garden clambered up the fences and sprawled across the walkways. But strangers had invaded our yard and placed stickers on everything, weird giant labels on trees, bushes, grass, garden, house, and somehow even the sky - even the clouds were labeled. I glanced at the giant maples towering over the yard, and the giant label read: "elm" in atrocious yellow and black. It was not an elm, it wasn't, it wasn't, I heard voices shouting inside my head. But I could not argue with the strangers - the label transformed the tree into an elm, and the beloved tree was a maple no more.
I didn't want an elm, I wanted a maple. Father came and walked around the yard with me, glancing at each peculiar sticker. Sam came running outside, and we knew something was wrong. He was getting younger. Somehow, we knew that each day, he was losing a year his life. Tomorrow, he would not remember this year, would have lost a year of his life. What would happen when he reached birth? We tried, each following day, to remind him of this, but it worried him so, and we gave up. Soon, he disappeared. Then I started getting younger. I could not stop the regression of time. I wrote things in my journal so that the next day I might remember them, but I forgot about my journal the following day. I thought up a crafty and hopeful phrase, and told my father to always remind me of it, each day until I was no more. I cannot remember the phrase now. It was a blessing, a faith, and a hope where none existed.
We found out, when I was but 10 years old, that a black spider was causing the time regression. My parents, too, now regressed in time. Every day, they lost years, and we only knew through the keeping of journals. We searched and searched, but could not find the black spider that was destroying us. I woke before I was undone, though I remember my parents getting younger faster and faster, almost surpassing me. A frightening vision into my psyche, I suspect, though I awakened with wonder. I remembered thinking that God had given me a phrase to keep me, even in the times where everything appeared inexorably in decline. I almost remember the phrase, the one I implored my father remind me of each day, but come morning I just could not quite recall it.

Dream Dialectics

I’ve gushed about fall enough, perhaps, for one season, yet I must shiver with glee at one more of my favorite pieces of this autumnal puzzle: cider. I absolutely love cider (non-alcoholic.. OBVIOUSLY). Now, without further ado, I shall begin my rant, my tyranny of writing. This one is a bit more dense than usual.


In my dreams, I met an atheist (or perhaps an agnostic). It, for I suspect that the creature in question was neither masculine nor feminine, I will call Raven, for its dark and flighty manner, and its opportunistic approach of swooping in on carrion arguments. Yes, I argued with an imaginary bird and, what’s more, in my dreams it may not have even been a bird. I attribute that identity post-sleep.
Why must God? Raven crowed.
Why indeed? must have crossed my mind.  Whatever belief system you hold, it requires at least a modicum of faith. Humanity does not possess objective answers on all accounts.  Our finite minds cannot easily comprehend the infinite, and, according to the logic of the universe by which we abide, there cannot have been an infinite past behind us.  Time is a strange phenomenon, an invention by which we live and die.  Let’s say you are a runner, and while standing at where the race was supposed to start, the referee approaches and tells you to retreat a hundred paces at least, for the starting line is behind you. Once you arrive, the referee continues his or her frantic waving, indicating you’ve simply not gone far enough: the starting line is at least five-hundred paces earlier.  If the starting line is infinitely far back, you will never reach it.
The same quality is true of time.
I understand your foolish argument, Raven cawed, interrupting me. But the universe was once without time, and time was constructed in a quantum effect and so on. Forgive me if my science is fuzzy, but –
Okay, okay, I replied, frowning at the dark matter peering at me with beady eyes. I’ll try another tack. Let’s assume that the prevailing theories of science in regards to evolutionary theory are correct. Evolutionary theory suggests that, according to macroevolution, species adapt and evolve according to a set of mechanisms: genetic drift (some reproducers in a population are luckier); genetic variation: sex, gene flow, and mutations offer a varying of genetics in a population over time; and natural selection: since there is variation, and unlimited growth is impossible, not everyone gets to reproduce according to their full potential.
What happens when you have a population who, through evolved natural process, cognitive capability, creativity, and sentience has greater control over heredity, potentially? Humans have no natural predators, and even the mechanisms that subvert population explosion are few, and rarely stop us long. Using our heightened awareness of what we deem the ideal candidates for reproduction, can we not, hypothetically, take a democratic vote of what we deem the greatest genetics worth passing into mankind’s future? For instance, why should the strongest, smartest, best-looking, healthiest, most creative exemplars of humanity be given license to procreate at a level unreserved for those of lower quality?
If there is no God, everything is permitted. ~ Ivan in the Brother’s Karamazov
One of the gravest problems with science and a lack of divinity is a lack of moral standard. If there is no God, there is no agreed-upon moral law. Why should you or they or anyone decide what is right, what is good, what is lawful? If I am the smartest, most creative, handsomest person this world knows, what is right is what I have invariably chosen. I know better than the rest of those beneath my level. Where religion and morality break down, we’ve made gods of man. The government may have decided that killing is wrong, rape is wrong, stealing is wrong, driving fast is wrong – however, if the pursuit of happiness is this country’s highest ideal, and those things bring me happiness or serve to increase humankind’s generations and evolutionary process, who can tell me that murdering someone is wrong? I can scarcely discuss these arguments as they disgust me so much.
Think of it this way: if I am stupid, foolish, ugly, ill, or uneducated, I have no place in society. Simply eating up the money of advantaged and successful people is, in a bizarre, scientific-naturalselection-amoral viewpoint, a sin, a gross evil. I’m holding back the evolution of mankind in a positive manner, and if evolution and science IS the standard by which we live, only the privileged should be granted the selection and choice of mating and procreation. Suddenly, A Modest Proposal doesn’t seem so farfetched. A whole slew of satire falls into place as a respectable, moral future that we should endeavor towards, right?
However extreme these statements, unless an alternate code is supplied, a differing standard by which we might measure goodness and morality, then Ivan is right: everything is permitted. There can be no true value system. And why should I trust yours or theirs or anyone’s value system but my own? I’m the only being I can prove possesses any rationality in the first place. I can’t prove you or anyone else actually exists. If there is no God, everything is permissible.
But deep within, you are crying out “no, no no!” You watch the news each day and cringe at each continuing horror and travesty shown. A war, a rape, a murder, a car crashing and people rushed to the hospital, sickness and poverty and pain, heartbreak and natural disaster and tragedy – each is almost enough to force you to turn off the television, dismayed at the turn of the world.  Are all of these things evil, inherently? And you see a long-separated family reunited, a soldier returned from war or holding a child of the enemy and pulling it from danger, or firemen rescuing a cat from a tree, or a spontaneous healing of cancer. These things bring smiles and tears of joy, unbidden, to your face. What is good, you ask? There are goods that span cultures and times, and evils that change not since the beginning of man. Can you change morality? And who are you to do so? If you claim there is no god, and set yourself up as one, what are you?
Why is God?  the creature called, unruffled by my words. Why does God?
I sighed. Good question my fine, feathered friend.
Sometimes this is the hardest question. The question of evil definitely requires the greatest consideration. Once, I heard the question answered very strangely: why do bad things happen to good people? The response? They never do. It is almost a Jewish response, though current Judaism holds that humanity is intrinsically good. But the idea is that there are no “good” people. There is none righteous, no not one. There are people who strive and endeavor for a moral life, and perhaps even succeed at a greater capacity than others, but does this mean they are good? Without the blood of salvation, would God consider their actions weighed and worthy of eternity? I am not the judge of salvation.

I wish I had more time to write, so that I could flesh all of this out. I feel like I’ve placed several straw-mans up and skeletons without flesh. Someday, I’ll have enough time for writing a full essay with actual research and careful planning, again. Maybe for NaNoWriMo I should write a series of essays instead of a story. I could do all sorts of exciting research and fun things. Well, we’ll hold that off for another day. Time to drink some delicious cider.

Swampy Swamp Swamp.

Words that slump into a murky swamp, ugly-low on the land. Moss-algae-mud the colorsmell of sulfur-rotten-ancient-scum-lichen-toady-sewer death.

Even the mushroom-vultures and cultured cultures steer clear.

I cannot see my face; the swamp bog of words renders, replies nothing - who am I in this?

WHO? Even the owl shrugs and stays not long in this TS Wasteland.

Eckleberg averts his gaze, rubbing his crimson-cream-eyes, tired, so tired, and removing those circular owl rims

Still, no words mirror me in this grog

And these are my words - or yours.

How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past?

"The master's words, not mine", the quag belch-spake

My words, your words, I'm in none of these

Emptyeverythings

Your words, my words, ignore my endless pleas

Fen beyond my ken, humor me

everglade, mire mirror, won't you reflect one image, please

Or at least, explain what needs change

afore I sink, before I drink,

the muddy-gummy-grimy-boorish dismay

of bitterfoolish defeat, viscous-morass-sighing dreams.

Is it naught but quicksand goodbyes and rodents of unusual size?

I see.

And this you can know- fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe.

~ John Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath

Bogged down much? Aha! Or perhaps, swamped in life? Time to marsh away! Or marsh-all yourself to peace? Aha Aha! In one of today's many lulls, I read some of my recent writings. I noticed a distinct trend toward short, concise, shoddy sentences in my casual writing that describe ill-defined ideas, and leave the reader with a frustrating staccato of stutter-stepping sentences. They are not eloquent, not clever, and the length rarely varies. Worse still, a hastening leaves pieces behind, like carrying too much laundry and dropping socks; like a leaking vessel at sea, jettisoning the hold; like a bleeding engine, hemorrhaging across the paved and murdered earth; like tree leaves come Autumn, though not beautiful - no, not beautiful.

Then the stories. My missing, mutilated muse: asphyxiated, poisoned, exsanguinated, diminished by degrees like a diaspora of belief, and yet I'm basking in stories as silver and swaddling as a lunar swoon, silken and heavenly. Not without existential quandary, without patient angst leaking into each like crimson ink in crystal water - the stories subtly infiltrated with ideas and poisoned with pulchritudinous emotions. It's your fault, yes it is, I say to the dreamers, the dreaming, sand sifting between his piano-fingers, spindly thin and wily. But it is also hers, and his, and always theirs, the blame shifts as the breeze, resting eventually in the billowing sleeves and the earl-grey-tea eyes of the painter, turning easel lakes into splendid scenery, a majestic, endless, panoramic canvas of subconscious imagery.

I was lent a poetic book, and I've been enjoying every moment of it. The book's writing is quite sensational (aha! pun night!) It is called, "A Natural History of the Senses" by Diane Ackerman. It is poetic, and it is lovely. She breaks each sense into sections in the book and each section into tinier segments that capture a specific detail, a "sense" of each of the 5 senses. In 'smell' she writes a section regarding violets and perfume, and in taste, she describes a grotesque and morbid cuisine invented by the British in the 1800s. Each section is meticulously studied, and, though each is but a brief and poignant essay, she infuses poetry into the fiber and blood of each and every sentence.
It is strange, the assortment of books I've read in the past week: a myth-fantasy with celtic, norse, and tolkein-esque motifs; a russian satire; a book of romantic poetry; a history of the senses; Bible passages; an enormous pamphlet on a proposed super-futuristic evolution of earth; the count of monte cristo; the two towers. What imaginations, what grandeur God has allowed us to dream! I'm thankful every day for creative license, and, more than just the freedom, the encouragement in artistic pursuit by the very creator of the universe. See what God has created? I feel like a young child with playdough who, on twisting and wrangling the dough, produces an indecipherable mess. Proudly, I hold it up in both hands, beaming face angled toward the heavens. "Look! It's a giraffe!" 

Seasons of Dreamings

The seasons are changing. Now, leaving my window open all-night-all-day requires an extra blanket at night, as temperatures drop below 50 at night, and mornings leave a crystalline dew that collects in lazy droplets against the screen. I even start each morning in sweats or warm-ups rather than shorts, and slipper usage on hardwood floors soon becomes a necessity.
Rain approaches, and the cinereal sky darkens the mornings, burning away in afternoons into an archipelago of popcorn-island clouds. The first leaves metamorphose. It is a season of stories approaching, myths, and my muse is blind, or deaf, or distant, or dreaming.

Last night, my dreams consisted of an apocalypse, and twin whirlwinds, spinning around like a destructive helix, approached the town. Only a tiny string of townhouses, rudely erected on the edge of the forest in which I played the piano in a log cabin, stood between me and devastation. I knew my older brother and the female goddess each slept soundly in those buildings, though I could not play loud enough over the deafening tornado winds to awaken them. I had not time to find them, for I knew not in which house they slept, but if I could only play a little louder, the apocalypse might end, and they might awaken to soothe the winds into sleeping.

That's two days in a row of oddly melancholy dreams, though only the first day I awakened in grief. This last one came with a strange expectation of hope, a belief of conclusive victory, however violent the storms and imminent their devastation.

Sunday Night Dreams: August Lands

Rumors drifted as a cool breeze across the burning hearts of the sore dwellers. They stood there, as every eventide, entranced in the prehistoric cannibalism of night, consuming the fire of the heavens. When the sun was swallowed, the thousand-eyed monster would open its eyes, and with countless teeth gnashing from the sea, it stared hungrily down, and the tribe would soon scamper into the hiding places, the caves of the coast, until the angry burning was reborn.

Their backs were stooped, scraggly hairs and hirsute faces merging into chest and arms, like patchy animals with ragged nails and teeth. Dull their eyes, but something, deep in those wells, shone a knowing, a spell of survival that surpassed simple savagery. And this knowing despised something of the searing heats, and their childlike thoughts savored myths of the temperate lands like sweetness on the lips. I remember. There are few of us who remain, when the prophet came, telling of the land behind these tooth-tipped waves and beyond this dome of the sky. He appeared from the wind, and his words invented magic and music these creatures understood not. Still, to this day, the distant children of this people cry, knowing not why, missing pieces of their soul. Listen: his songs fill those holes.

"A distant land beyond these waves, with peaceful nights and cautious days, whose maples sway and leaves gold turn, turn, an endless fall. You've sought it long, and know not for what you're made. These lands call your names. Golden trees with silver leaves, a pleasant breeze and fearless eves, and a love worth taxing days."

Some were bought, some stayed, though the sea was fierce and broad. I, for one, must see this fall land, this endless summer burnt me bronze and black, eyes dark as night and no joy, no joy left for this living fire. So I ran across the waters, we were stronger then, faster, and we chased the sun at night. So fast, so fleet, it never escaped into the monster's maw, we pursued it endlessly. At least, the shores of silver greeted our endless sunset race, and golden trees and singing birds whistled as we landed, the deer grazed unafraid. Even the sky cried in joy, and we cried in fright at its falling tears, hiding under those honeyed boughs.

We stood taller, eyes shone brighter, and we paid the price for fall, and gained a strange knowledge in return.



Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes when you fall, you fly.
~ Neil Gaiman

Tuesday Night Lights

Autumn appeared and Summer played its last mischief. The sky was beautiful tonight, like a shadow cast over the purest lapis lazuli, fading into a dull ember orange near the skyline. With a foxtail moon and a dusting of stars, the temperature and atmosphere is perfect for thoughts and simply laying in the grass, staring into the heavens and asking questions of eternity. Where next, Lord? Oh, never mind, it matters little, doesn't it? I can't see very far, truly, when contemplating the greatness of this world, this universe. What's it like, Father? Do you eternally see it as good, each moment since creation?
Silly questions, frivolous questions, but Cassiopeia  smiles and rocks in her little wooden chair as she listens, and pulls up a glass of water with the dipper, though the bear, whose tail it is, was not impressed, and Orion chuckles as he holds aloft his hunter's prize.
Every year, I think, has held its ends and beginnings, its hopes and queries, its trials and joys. What would it take, I ask, for a fulfillment of my dreams? What must I do? The stars just twinkle in response, and the divine is silent, this time, though the breeze over the hills is not. There are a lot of questions, a lot of loves, a lot of thoughts, a lot of wishes, broken or filled or patient, swimming across my mind like those satellites in the sky. Many of these will be broken, shortly, but they'll be replaced with new dreams. Is that the way of it then? Why bother fretting, when all will be clear as this sky, eventually?

We're alike, the moon and I.
Wax to life, wane goodbye
Shedding silver light by night
Shift away by day
No argentine remains to grace
Fae forgotten dreams
I'll trace your name among the stars

Apple Juice Dreams?

A week ago, I discovered that drinking apple juice immediately prior to sleeping induces incredibly vivid dreams. Supposedly, it increases the production of acetylcholine which enhances memory and, potentially, dreams in brain activity.

This fascination with dreams, it is my roommates' faults. I thought it might be worth trying, as I love apple juice and I love dreams. I've had absurd dreams this past week, and last night's was no exception. It is worth repeating, however silly.

We were on a cruising ship on the outskirts of an island full of bridges that leaped into the ocean, falling into the sea. Our ship's engine was loud, though we had a sail raised also, and the wind pressed strongly into the cloth. The purpose of our voyage was simple whale-watching, and the boat was shaped as an extraordinarily large metal canoe, a tiny ironclad bobbing atop the waves.  As we sailed beneath the overhanging bridges, a giant humpbacked whale breached and soared into the air nearby, spouting as its entire length soared over the sea not twenty meters distant from our boat. Our captain was in shock at the proximity of the whales, and ordered our vessel slow, as traveling so close to whales is prohibited by law, he said.

More whales began leaping all around is, sailing through the air like flying fish, and striking poses as tourists snapped pictures madly. Then the captain panicked and said we must race for shore, because so many whales meant an attack, and we had to make it to shore before they ensnared our vessel in their clutches. So, with the wind surging behind us and our motors chugging, we steamed towards the nearest island. Then, as we passed beneath the arches of several majestic bridges, the whales began leaping beneath the ship, lifting it into the air on their backs so that the ship veritably flew over the waters.

We were running shy on time. The whales almost had us within the grasp, the captain cried.

Still, we could go no faster, as we now rode atop the whales' backs. And, soon enough, the captain was correct in his assessment. They lifted their flukes around our vessel, anchoring it in location just off the coast of a giant, temperate island.  Then, with a swish of movement, they flipped the vessel, and suddenly, somehow, we all stood atop the belly of the ship, trying to maintain our balance as the whales rocked the sinking ship. Those who could not maintain their balance fell into the water and swiftly swam for the safety of shore.  I managed to discover a technique that easily left me the last man standing on the boat, whereupon I leapt into the water, victor of a ridiculous game. 

Once on shore, we had a tiny canoe that appeared from nowhere and everyone thought was our original ship (though a canoe of that size would have held only 3 people, and we had ten or fifteen on shore). It quickly became apparent that night was coming, and if we did not find shelter soon, we would all freeze to death in the arctic temperatures of night. We began looking around for shelter, and I hurriedly let everyone know that I did not remember to bring my blanket. I would die once night fell, for I would freeze to death. I asked Matthew if he would share a blanket, and he said he had but one, and it was a tiny blanket.  The captain decided we should hasten and visit the hotel on the hill, and ask for blankets there. We ran up the hill and entered into the hotel, and a lady was cleaning the floors with a large brush. 

"Can we have some blankets?" Matthew and the Captain asked the girl. She looked at them gravely, angrily, and said, "No, I will not give you blankets. You'll have to freeze to death."

We implored her for blankets, knowing she had extras as the inn appeared empty. We even asked her for a room at her inn, and she refused us everything, even when we offered money for our stay. We decided that we were going to have to steal blankets, and left the hotel to formulate our mischief.

Then I woke up, just as we were about to return into the cold of night.