Mortal Fool
Ascend, goddamn you!
Rise from fair Phoenix ashes, embalmed
To live and be lived, to be once again
Discard earthen rags; soiled, sloth-steamed scraps
Wash unclean thoughts and transgressions
Shed the self who sees no one else
Blink into being
Time cascades tributaries; each of us
To one day dry, evaporating into clouds as yet unclimbed
So ascend, mortal fool!
Before you like she is no more
A whispered vapour among outstretched hands
...and normally I'm such a fan of sleep.
I dreamt about her a few times this week.
The computer is telling me that I spelled 'dreamt' incorrectly.
That's right, isn't it? Past tense?
We all dream in the past, so there's gotta be a word for it.
Anyway, when I dreamt about her while she was alive, and they were all silken scarves, that was fine.
Not so crazy about them now.
Now I have to wake up and remember that she's dead all over again.
There were a few episodes of that this week.
I suppose I have some subconcious things to tell her.
She doesn't say much in them...
Sarah used to describe her dreams to me all of the time - she loved yammering on about herself.
Dreams are as imaginative as any of us have an opportunity to get between YouTube playlists.
Dreams are us at our whackiest, and she was no different.
But even for dreams, I used to find hers far-fetched.
The very first I had was long ago, a couple of days after it happened.
There was no giant stone or tomb, but it was sorta like a resurrection.
She lay curled in her mother's lap, in the Turpin porch, on the pew (maybe it's just a bench once it leaves a church).
Her Nana was there too, and they were quietly appreciating her.
It was just like a room with a newborn baby in it, y'know?
You walk in and things are very hushed in a positive way; a quiet, tired hush, but one full of potential.
People greet one another, but they just sorta make a little noise with their mouth because it's such a still kinda moment.
That's how the two women welcomed me as I came in.
The analogy makes sense. The baby room thing. Go to a maternity ward and stroll into a room with a just-squeezed baby in it and you'll understand what I'm getting at.
Anyway, she rolled a bit and looked up at me and said, "I'm done with you."
It was a joke.
I always believe mine.
I'm one of these goons who could dream about being held at gunpoint by a former priest, and while the dream is going on, I am convinced that this is truly happening to me.
"Oh my Jesus, Reverand Letto's gonna kill me and steal my stuff."
This week marked the first time I ever saw through a dream of mine.
She and I were in a room and I remember little else, but I told her, "I'm dreaming this. This is a dream."
And she didn't disagree.
The computer is telling me that I spelled 'dreamt' incorrectly.
That's right, isn't it? Past tense?
We all dream in the past, so there's gotta be a word for it.
Anyway, when I dreamt about her while she was alive, and they were all silken scarves, that was fine.
Not so crazy about them now.
Now I have to wake up and remember that she's dead all over again.
There were a few episodes of that this week.
I suppose I have some subconcious things to tell her.
She doesn't say much in them...
Sarah used to describe her dreams to me all of the time - she loved yammering on about herself.
Dreams are as imaginative as any of us have an opportunity to get between YouTube playlists.
Dreams are us at our whackiest, and she was no different.
But even for dreams, I used to find hers far-fetched.
The very first I had was long ago, a couple of days after it happened.
There was no giant stone or tomb, but it was sorta like a resurrection.
She lay curled in her mother's lap, in the Turpin porch, on the pew (maybe it's just a bench once it leaves a church).
Her Nana was there too, and they were quietly appreciating her.
It was just like a room with a newborn baby in it, y'know?
You walk in and things are very hushed in a positive way; a quiet, tired hush, but one full of potential.
People greet one another, but they just sorta make a little noise with their mouth because it's such a still kinda moment.
That's how the two women welcomed me as I came in.
The analogy makes sense. The baby room thing. Go to a maternity ward and stroll into a room with a just-squeezed baby in it and you'll understand what I'm getting at.
Anyway, she rolled a bit and looked up at me and said, "I'm done with you."
It was a joke.
I always believe mine.
I'm one of these goons who could dream about being held at gunpoint by a former priest, and while the dream is going on, I am convinced that this is truly happening to me.
"Oh my Jesus, Reverand Letto's gonna kill me and steal my stuff."
This week marked the first time I ever saw through a dream of mine.
She and I were in a room and I remember little else, but I told her, "I'm dreaming this. This is a dream."
And she didn't disagree.
