HERESAY NINE
In the wee hours, furled flags get scarce. Silence glares at speech. And very few care for a flameless candle. Understanding all of this, Twinkie goes to sleep. I think she juggles metaphors on her slack wire, and no balance pole needed.
Remains of the day are loath to quote themselves, there is so much noise normally. Now that they have taken refuge in my back pocket, there arrives in the bathroom a medium size black spider.
This fellow seems familiar. Yes. Two days ago the same was hiding shyly by the leg of the sundries drawer. Though it backs away when I enter, I say hello. I'll be back. It's OK, I say.
Half an hour later it's shower time. And still there, not hiding. So we’re doing fine. When my shower's done, I need to replace a bandage, getting one out of the drawer. But that's a bit much. It retreats into the shadows.
Now the double back flip banana – staid passages of almost classical lucidity, all dove-tailed in logical order. Precise and properly subordinated. The alert reader, however, may catch a glimpse of meaning, scarce and fleeting, just out the corner of one eye.
Let's say we're building a mansion. Or make that many mansions. To all appearances, however, from the outside each seems just a house. Every part follows the blueprint. Yet the space between each house and mansion nowhere appears. Each piece fits, yet what mansion? When a house would do, seeming sufficient. Just so, there are some inexplicable things in plain sight, with no mysteries attached, made of plain sticks. Except to certain readers.
Ordinary words are speaking masks. Any need for obtuse language is largely a tradition, perpetuated by people who are not paying attention.
It's not crystal clear? Let's play, then, just for fun. Imagine a mirror that reflects another mirror. The images are quite precise. Even though plainly stated, the very fact is camouflage. This plate of french fries, taken from the hot oil of tomorrow, will be served today. Enough said for the order of time? No spices needed. The recipe is simple. It looks like laziness. If I were a cook, I wouldn't know what to call it.. The recipe comes in a flash, but the fries are different every occasion.
As you might suppose, too many cooks spoil the broth.
However now on the kitchen counter, where lettuce leaves are wrapped in a paper towel to dry, there it is, sitting on top and right in the middle. Is it deliberate, so I'd conclude no mistake?
Breakfast must go on. I take a glass from the cupboard, shoo my visitor inside to be let out in the garden by the back door. It's a place kept watered. The weather has been so dry lately.
A blind horse whump-ass desert is how its been here. Never mind our famed Mediterranean climate. It's November, remember, yet still not a drop of rain. To call a spade real news-- sunny, seventy degrees, calm, pleasant. It's BBQ weather, yet who wants to mention a camp fire?. Not long ago it was Public Safety Power Shutdown weather. Notwithstanding, smoke still drifts in and we have Spare the Air alerts. High tension is not just a term for electric transmission lines. It's as though there’s been an argument that's not quite over yet.
Beneath trees here, relaxing in the hammock of my mind, there is a blip of light seen to the left, which draws attention. Perhaps an afterthought, “That will do.”
The mud sparrow builds its nest, dabs of reality – universe is alive in these scintillations.
Layers of the day enfold the night, the rhythm is invisible, and it seems the whole enterprise is grateful there is sleep. Between here and there, now and then, between buildings, comes the Warrant Officer's Parade. Don't ask. Let humor gloss The Office of Sleep.
What is it? Oh, we know. It happens often enough. But how? The answer can't be mined out of the depths of sleep itself. And whence exactly, if I may intercede, comes my dream? Haunting this enigma is the quantum two-way mirror, solid logic? But everyone seems to know this, or think they do.
The shroud of night, if having escaped unshredded, brings sleep. There is a welcome to the land of dreams, and once there the tatters of the day are forgotten. They were misconceived, perhaps.
Next day, as night unfurls, the puzzle re-emerges. Coming out the other end, everything returns, including a few new variations. The endless cycle turns a new leaf. One looks into the mirror, suspecting solidity. The dream isn't over . . .
The answer can't depend on anyone else. Within and without are indistinguishable. Tools for uncovering this reality are patience and concentration.
