Ghost River – 6

October 12, 2006 at 5:01 pm (Ghost River)


Words chose the poet…The art of the writer consists in little by little making words interest themselves in his books.


I digress. But you have to make sure no one is following. That is why you weave back and forth, here and there, over and about, east and west, and then, when Argos begins to shut his eyes one by one, then you can speak.

If you examine dreams closely, you will see that they never stay still. They are always moving. If you want to find the still point in the dream, you have to be alert. This kind of alertness requires practice.  Pretend that you are dreaming now.   Look at the room you are in, noting the doors and windows, what is on the inside and outside of them. Note what is close and what is far away. Look at the objects in the room. Which are speaking and which are quiet? Note the layers of sound. Note the light. Where is it coming from? What is it moving toward?  

Last night I woke up suddenly. Wind was blowing through the house. There was no one there. I saw a light on in the workshop and went out to look. It was empty. I saw lights in the forest. I walked up the hill path. I could hear sounds of animals.  The stars in the sky were not still, but moving and breaking into pieces. I walked deeper into the woods. A mist arose. I couldn’t see trees, only tombstones. I was in some cemetery.  The mist lifted and I saw a creek and a bridge, and beyond the bridge hills of black grass.    

I woke up again. I heard my late wife’s voice from inside the closet and went up and opened the door.  It led into an empty high school. The voice I heard was coming from a locker. I opened it.  There was a stairway leading down. I followed it into a cold stone room. My wife was standing at a thick wooden table mixing liquids in a chalice. “What is it?” I asked.  “I can’t show you,” she replied sadly.

Then a window opened up in the wall and I saw my father. He was standing in the snow.  It was snowing. He was holding up a photograph.  I began staring at it, then found that I was in the photograph.  It was the garden of my father’s farm. I walked inside and found him in the library. He looked up and put his hand through my body. It wasn’t solid at all.  Then I knew I was behind the mirror, where images no longer were forced to take a set form, but could appear intimately and randomly, in any fashion they chose.


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