Definitely the stuff of miracles, but it's not nesting on a porch that keeps a potted geranium. Layered in are stories rolled out as for a pie crust. Light years of interstellar travel are warped for convenient home delivery, added in for free, provided . . .
The ghost ship Captain cranks the Engine Order Telegraph, Full Speed Ahead. Proud Mary keep on burnin', progress turnin' people into profits. Sold the Vision down the river, and drifters are along for the ride as ice caps melt away, cities flood, drinking water evaporates, sewerage plants overflow, birds and bees gasp for air.
The Telegraph creaks, sending flash mobs out to meet a virus that eats them alive, no cure, no remorse. Oh, this isn't happening! We have Amazon Prime (even as the Amazon, like Australia, California, Canada – are all burnin'). The air is toxic, nowhere to breathe.
Not to worry, say proud leaders, we've got this under control. The mockery storm flashes across screens to anger a base bent on amplifying the beat. We believe because it's absurd. Better than to admit the planet is dying, family, friends caught in storms that redistribute whole towns. Don't pay attention to fake news.
In my dream I enter a house inhabited by abandoned children. It's rather messy. They need someone to care for them. At the moment they are not inside, but shortly they will be. Whoever they are, we'll get along and make adjustments to put things in order, like beds and scattered clothes and how to cook meals. I can't imagine how I got here, but it seems not worth an explanation. I imagine there might be a bike in the bathroom, which would make sense somehow, but am not sure if one is there. One way or the other, it doesn't seem very important. A window is open, breeze blowing through the curtain, so that's the first thing. Shut the window. And then a rustle of laughter. They are coming in, but I don't see them yet. It feels good to have some kids to take care of.
An orange tree in blossom rides the golf cart, picking up competitors. It recalls the days of spiking lemon cokes with Vics nose inhalers. Depending on your pedigree, the mere mention of this will either enrage, entrance or inveigle some ventricle. There is no official census. But skidding alongside the tracks of an accidental kite, descending out of an upper wind, is a third grader being hauled back to school. And now we see the purpose.
All the uncoordinated mistakes meant to be seriously learned, graded, rewarded, that predated writing. “This is for your own good.” Everyone agrees, except for the kid digging his heels into the dirt. And then it rains.
The orange crop will be ruined. A tractor is ordered. The ruined trees will be replaced. Grapes will be grown instead. More water, so the creek needs a new dam. And it doesn't take long before the pond is deep enough. The rain stops. Yee ha! The kid jumps in for a swim.
The requirements of the day exit on their own plane. I have made enough bubbles for today. Let banners flap in their breeze, bright pennants at the flap of the tent, kids hoping to sneak under without getting caught. Freedom! Not having to pretend on butterflies and blessings.
Between compass points are spaces too far apart, like pigs on roller skates, and all their cherished principals are chased up an apple tree. Hear the laughter fading into a blue sunset. This way of playing the tune pulses with a dull thud, turned out of a wash tub bass, a Taiko back beat chiming bell. Staccato mama.
The mind insists on its own language, smiling at pretentious words, a truce of daisy chains strung out over calm waters, teeing off the flight path at the end of the universe. Everybody knows this, linked arm in arm at the ninth hole, singing kumbaya. Everyone is there wearing faded jeans and medals found at the Goodwill store.
All the misplaced credit is rapping on a view port at the International Space Station. Inside there is a small experiment for growing spinach in space. In the Captain's backyard space was at a premium; community gardens in New York are scarce as cat feathers. And here, if all this seems out of sorts, the counter weight is waiting not too far back, concealed under a tarp, down in the depths, leaving behind parched religious pages . . . the words clatter in rows of falling dominoes.
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” wrote Emerson. Some 48 years later Oscar Wilde put it, “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative . . .”
Why this should be is another matter. I suspect that some minds are unable or unwilling to keep track of yin/yang categories that interpenetrate. Stick my toe in water and decide: is the pond half empty or half full? Will both toes give identical reports? Suppose one to have been in the sun, while the other sheltered in the cool shade. Then it becomes a case of he said, she said. Consistency hobgobbles even unbounded minds.
For dullards, an entertainment of the aphorism is beyond comprehension. See the hen picking through a toss of wild bird seed, carefully pecking up only yellow seeds. Surely there is a bird brain at work, a little mind with no hobgoblins. But a superior one might imagine them.
