Friday, June 21, 2013
diplomacy.
And this time
I toe the line a little
make it look smart
like an informed decision
when it was all fly
all touch and go.
wet dreams
I had a dream I played a piano on a beach; an overcast cove, hemmed in with grey cliffs that fell to the shore in crumbling slants. And it was cold. Cold in my dream, where my feet touched the sand, and the waves sucked at the piano legs pulling them closer to water with every crash, and creeping of foam, pulling us both, the piano and I, into the sea. The dark wood was grainy and old, and I could trace the knots and veins with my eyes as my fingers met the keys, and curved over them in heavy octaves and flourishes, and trills. It was so real. I played until I ached, and I woke with the melancholy song still ringing in my ears.
And now I sit at my keyboard, thinking. I have a memory of playing a neon piano in the desert, about this time last year. I had crawled out of a dust storm, hiding behind an army jeep until it passed... miles from my own encampment. As the storm abated, I saw it - coming out of the dust like a dream. I went to it, laid down my pack and my water-skin and played all that was in me. The loneliness, the fear, the joy, the curiosity. The sun returned and beat down, washing out the vibrancy of the pink and green flourescent keys, and at long last I looked up to see a gathering of people watching at a distance. They pleaded for me to go on, but I could not, my throat choking with either the dust or surprise; I could not tell the difference. They offered granola bars, cold water, and a few hugs. I accepted what they gave, feeling at once both fearful and awe. I took my leave of them, and continued my walk as another storm rolled in, blotting out the sun. I did not know where I was going again, but somehow hours later, wound up mute and exhausted at my camp and slept until nightfall...
I have this dream of playing my heart out in every corner of the world; in strange settings, in woods, and fields; on city-corners.
And yet I still stand here, frozen, pondering these black and white patterns, trying to remember the tune from last night. I am voiceless without it.
What does such a dream mean?
And now I sit at my keyboard, thinking. I have a memory of playing a neon piano in the desert, about this time last year. I had crawled out of a dust storm, hiding behind an army jeep until it passed... miles from my own encampment. As the storm abated, I saw it - coming out of the dust like a dream. I went to it, laid down my pack and my water-skin and played all that was in me. The loneliness, the fear, the joy, the curiosity. The sun returned and beat down, washing out the vibrancy of the pink and green flourescent keys, and at long last I looked up to see a gathering of people watching at a distance. They pleaded for me to go on, but I could not, my throat choking with either the dust or surprise; I could not tell the difference. They offered granola bars, cold water, and a few hugs. I accepted what they gave, feeling at once both fearful and awe. I took my leave of them, and continued my walk as another storm rolled in, blotting out the sun. I did not know where I was going again, but somehow hours later, wound up mute and exhausted at my camp and slept until nightfall...
I have this dream of playing my heart out in every corner of the world; in strange settings, in woods, and fields; on city-corners.
And yet I still stand here, frozen, pondering these black and white patterns, trying to remember the tune from last night. I am voiceless without it.
What does such a dream mean?
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