A Mongrel of Man and Malus

this just kind of came out of nowhere. i was going to write something summarized the rabbit dream in a few lines, but this happened instead. fyi, 'malus' is a genus of trees, most notable for the crabapple tree, as well as serving as a ballin' homophone. there's your fun fact for the day. i will redo this one someday.

Little one, 

A question to ask:

Do you not know,

Binding weeds have foiled maturation?

          Teeth have bitten

          A heart unwritten.

          As an apple once bit,

          Learns twice to quit.

Little one,

It is no small task:

Do you not know,

Roots erred demand redemption?

          Ashes spat from tongue and cheek,

          Rewrite the man, however meek.

          His deviant deeds undone,

          Stitched, strangled and wrung.

Little one,
No longer ask,
For you now know,
As burgeoned limbs discover just fruition.

Harbinger of Healing

this is expounded on from a dream I had in early December, a combination of Watership Down and From Fear to Love, both books I had recently read. 

My steps took me to the open shop door. The yard, basking in the summer warmth, was empty save for myself It held a curiously absent feeling, as if I had entered my own mind as a stranger unfamiliar with familiar surroundings. I stopped at the threshold of the open door, for there sat a small white rabbit with his ears flat against his body, crippled in a trembling fear.

I approached the rabbit with a tender caution. I understood it represented a part of my own subconscious. This rabbit, frightened and lost, was a manifestation of childhood fears in guileless nature. Without speaking a word, I gently lifted the rabbit into my arms and held him against my chest. He had been wronged somehow and vindication was necessary, as much for me as for him.

Whatever discord had befallen him it had been most unnatural; this brand of fear in a rabbit his size and age begs vengeance on him who is responsible. That deed, however, was not for my doing. The rabbit, wide-eyed in his fear and inured by the danger of the world around him, needed assurance that he could exist in his own fur; an assurance that could only come from discerning an identity above whatever trauma he endured.

In his shaking fear, I attempted to find a location where he would feel safety, a place where he could begin to talk about what had happened to him. From corral to coop, barn to bin I walked, my feet crunching against the gravel, the sound of which echoed against the seemingly airless surroundings. With each stop, he only shook his head.

"Not the place," he seemed to scream with his eyes, "This is not the place."

My feet continued on, still cradling the rabbit in my arms. He nestled his nose in the nook of my elbow, nervously checking his surroundings. All I could think to do was to speak a steady stream of affirmations into his folded ears: "You are safe. I have you. You are safe. I will keep you safe."

With several more locations I, at last, understood. I looked into his vacant eyes, my own filled with compassion and searing empathy. We were finally on one accord and his taciturn voice seemed to erupt as revelation flooded over us.

"We have to go back. Back to where it all began."

Three Goats

I was standing in our shop. The yard was full of trucks coming and going with the excitement of harvest. I walked to the edge of the open shop door and looked out to the south, to the field and the gravel road. There was a man that had crossed the road onto our yard, pushing three goats, black and white towards the shop. I could not see the man's face as his head was angled downward beneath his fedora. After the goats were on their way towards me, the man took his leave. They walked in a tight cluster, the three of them, with baby horns and flitting ears, yellow eyes and noisy hooves. The goats appeared malignant in their curiosity, walking right into the shop where I had been alone with my written thoughts. Standing in the middle of the shop was a table with an open notebook; my notebook containing all my thoughts, dreams, and revelations. I didn't want them to look, but still they sifted through the pages. I backed slowly to the front door of the shop, their unified gaze turning intermittently from the notebook to me. I ran out the front door to the house. I was frantic, trying to lock all the doors to keep them from finding a way into the house. In my panic, I could not shake their gaze as it burned in my mind's eye.

"Three Goats, black and white
Sifting pages in the night.

Six yellow eyes

Locked on their prize.

With baby horns
One mother mourns.

For under guise, still telling lies
Whose father cries?"

Three Goats, black and white,
Breaking in, absent of light.

Sunrise

I was sitting in the grass facing west, outside of a house near the school. I was calm, peaceful, tranquil. I stood up, turned east towards the sunrise and walked into the house. I was with a colleague and my mother was present as well. We were gathering what we wanted out of this transitioning home. This house The morning had come and with it a opportunity to move on; to move out and begin a new life with the sun that lifted the darkness.

Breath of air
 Exhaled slowly
See the sun
 Watch it rise
Pack your things
 Time to go

I Played a Game

Dreams are crazy. Even crazier are those nights when you seem to drift in and out of a half-sleep, never really waking up, but seemingly having full consciousness, making decisions, thinking about your dreams, even writing in your head.

Last night I had a strange dream, one of those ethereal scenarios where every interaction seems glazed over. I was in my elementary school, in the kitchen specifically. It was night time and here were a lot of people milling around the building playing some sort of game, the specifics of which I do not know, as it seems I was removed from the game, not really present. There was another individual with me in the kitchen, we were just standing there in the glow of the exit sign staring at each other.

What happened next is difficult to explain. We both looked up as a phenomenon was occurring overhead. The ceiling was dissipated, as if it was irrelevant. From the corner of the room, above and behind my head something began turning, revealing previously unseen cobwebs, laced with dried up flies and other prey. The web was spinning, churning towards a central point, above and behind my head, that was sucking it in, drawing it in towards itself to keep. The individual and I kept our heads lifted, amazed at the exposing of the cobwebs, and at whatever was drawing it in.

How long had the cobwebs been above and behind my head?
What had sparked the invisible machine, revealing and churning away the cobwebs filled with insects?
Plenty of parallels here, I am certain the revelations I drew from this dream are clear.

I half-awoke from this dream. As usual, I wanted to remember the dream by writing lines in my head to describe what happened. Almost without thinking, these lines were formed:

"I played a game with my past
Recoiling the invisible web
Twisting it inside out
To catch dried flies and alibis"

I kept telling myself to get up and write it down, but I never fully awoke to do such a thing. Instead, in my half stupor I recited the lines over and over, falling deep into sleep, half waking up again and reciting them again. I woke up and had them memorized and could recount what the dream had been about. It made for a strange night, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Also, I was up until midnight hacking out my bronchitis, ended up soused on cough syrup before my head hit the pillow for good. Gotta love those nights, and I gotta love drawing meaning from anything I can.