IN TIME'S EYE

Dream Labyrinth

I have returned from a vista of rolling dunes. The Wizard of Oz just chased a hookah smoking caterpillar off his mushroom, and Alice out there hoisting a hand lettered sign retrieved from yesterday's rally. Of course it will be said I just made this up.

True, I do have such dreams, but then who could be held responsible? Would it be plagiarism? By the principal of fair use, my nightmares are not liable. Scot free, in the realm of night shades.

Day dreams are another matter. Sure they can be deliberate and profitable, enviable as such. Or drugs will induce weird visions that others see, if similarly influenced.

Or you might conjure straight ahead fiction.

This may constitute a line of reasoning.

Reader beware! The line between dreams and reality is tenuous enough already. There are certified professionals who will help you thread the needle, or toe the line as they see it. Dispute them at your peril.

Let me bypass some administrative expenses. This screed is paced to match attention spans inculcated by the internet.

A story is not a surrogate for experience. Rather it is a pastime, a daydream. Experience is the best teacher, and as for ultimate reality, experience is the only teacher.

On the Nearness of Napping

strange indeed that moss shares no echoes

its softness speaking only in dreams

or in the slow capillary drip clinging after rain

it is not at all like that woman

washing her hair in a stream

who of course might have been

by her cave

its hollowness bounding down into ripples

coiling into shadows

stunned by the brilliance of geraniums

which

having shown their colors at the entrance

in all honesty

had to weep

while tramplers of moss, laughing

squashed rivulets

between their feet

Consuminoid

We've pretty much all been had. This remark floating by wormed its way in: “Are we having fun yet?” I wondered how anyone could be so dumb. On a trip to Kyo Po Market, shopping for green tea, a hallmark of wisdom, or ginseng in wild packages emblazoned with red roots.

Once, while leaving the library, my gaze settled briefly on a famous person who had turned to stone, and it was plain as day, easy to understand. Small creatures scurry through the park. I recalled a colony of ants in Japan, as though just a moment ago. They were building a small volcanic mound up through cracks in the asphalt, halfway between the chow hall and the microwave shack. And I'm supposed to be interested in buying a cell phone?

I am not Pavlov's dog. Let them yap. This is not the kind of rap all too commonly heard while being a citizen of Pavlovia. Then --

sitting in the electric chair without actually realizing it

almost accidentally discovering how to unlatch the cell door

the bars folding up

freedom most inconceivable

better not blink

Well now, there's nothing to shout. It doesn't sting, and nothing much to sing. The cell never was. The blueprints on toilet paper were believed, temporarily, then dwindled down the drain. Dissolved.

That statue by the Federal building? Will it blink?

      This might get a better hearing if there was --

      a detour around the ant mound, let's see

      an argument between the cooks, a grease spill

      and the careless one?

      oh yeah

      sleeping with his girlfriend, in town

      on the weekends

See? Once out of the cage, everything becomes clear.

Fugue

at night

a bucket of mop water on the porch is forgotten

to the delight of darkness

as the fireflies say

keep on looking, keep on

and you'll miss us

then a slight jar in the fundament

still quite unobservable in the firmament

while taking a group photo

and the family dog snags a flea

acts naturally

rocks the camera tripod

an unlikely event

the ones forgotten on the porch

though they flittered politely, pretending

they were hardly there



Vision

I photographed the colony of mushrooms in early morning sun. They were an orderly crowd, wearing domed hats, tan bowlers, a silent throng of trolls perhaps, or imps, forest gnomes.

Maybe I had interrupted a ceremony. Instinctively they went stock still, the way a squirrel will if he sees you've seen him. Or it might be the simplest expression of curiosity. A commentary without intent, found in that field of coarse gravel out of which dawn catchers grow, sharp edged, of lighter hue, nearly white with specks of orange. The gravel in my camera's eye becoming smoothed into boulders was an effect of overexposure.

With two eyes and one mind, what do you see?