Sleep was that elusive fish, that silver flash deep in the dark pool, the one that was so difficult to hook and lately Robinson Lereux had found it even more elusive than usual.
He used to call sleep to him, talking to it as he might a
pretty girl, sweetly, with a teasing smile that women really found attractive
if his luck in that department was any gauge. He would coax it to come to him,
to take him really, as those sweet girls so often did, and he’d fill its ears
with gentle thoughts and extravagant promises he always meant when he said
them. The words coaxing sleep were not always uttered out loud, they didn’t
need to be, but they were there, in that constant roll of chatter that streamed
inside his head. That’s where he stitched all his words together, turning them
into what he needed or wanted or desired—sleep, money, a woman. It’s what he
did, this talk, how he got by, and yet, while those honeyed phrases worked
elsewhere, sleep had begun to resist even his slyest flatteries.
The words he depended
on, that were his gift really, had begun to dissolve in his mind on those
sleepless nights and unbidden images rose in their place, unspooling in his
mind’s eye, driving language away. Sweet words meant to seduce sleep became
images of snow melting on the surface of spruce swamps in late fall and he’d
end up looking at how white the flakes looked on the black water before they
dissolved. He’d see how that water absorbed falling leaves the same way it did
snowflakes only it chewed them into muck and as the muck thickened and grew it
pushed the water out of the swamp in thin creeks that joined into wide rivers
that pulsed over the earth the way the blood pulsed through his veins. He saw
himself as a swamp then and a swamp never slept, he could see that. Even under
the ice in the dead of winter, it just kept chewing dead leaves into living
muck, just as his words were now being dissolved into living images that pulsed
within him, dream-like as it happened, only he never dreamt them.
Monday, March 4, 2013
What if a man were a tree, men, what would that tree desire in the bird? Wings, men? Feathers?
Leaves, men, are the feathers on the wings of the tree. And a tree who was a man, men, would pull its roots from the homeground and become bird, men, bark on the wing, leaves in the sky.
Leaf wings of tree men swirl up in the whirlwind, men, and rise to those places that tree men can only dream, men. The clouds, men, the clouds that nourish them. Trees take wing in tree men dreams, men, tree branches the wings for angel feather leaves and then, men, them clouds become the dream you rise to, the tree men heaven.
Leave it men! Leave the clouds found in the words of men; leave that heaven, men.
Men should not make trees into men. Men should not make clouds into heaven, or leaves into wings, men. Let the tree be tree, men, let leaves be leaves, and let the tree find its heaven, men, when it falls to the homeground. Men, stop being angels, stop making trees live in cloud heaven. Become the tree, men, as the tree is. Fall to the earth, men, don’t rise from it.