Dream's Many Voices

    I was deceived, but the deception faded into oblivion. And thus from the murky gloom sprouted understanding. Dreaming awake, such a horror spread like spilled ink across the page of my day and cast an ominous shape that to my mind’s eye equaled ruination. Despair; what to do with feelings that sting like a pepper-mouthed snake covered in quills. And how to roll with the rhythm as if somehow the suns’ lies were only a matter of deciphering shadows from light… It’s not that simple, really, when blame wrings her small jaws tight like damp cloth. The soil is nurturing and a cool brook soothes as she flows over raw cheekbones, rough with heat. Fault is a matter of back-and-forth, like an old-fashioned game of tennis in the lawn at dawn. Players’ mouths stretch tight against disapproving faces hiding truths and re-inventing circumstances. And vows pertaining to truth mean little when spoken between two adversaries, whose minds are each incased in a balm of waxy perception, and beneath all the layers remain far too slippery to grasp. Riding the hurricane, words work to destroy every last ounce of sanity, tipping the chairs and shattering dishware within the haphazard structure of the sinister moment-to-be. Sick, so very sick is the train of thought which chugs down the tracks of doubt, happy as a star-thistle. The smoke is thick, concealing the sky and the ground all at once. A spiky flower is the heart, cold and sharp when it all comes crashing down. We will wheedle the arrows out of the flesh with reckless abandon, to avoid the torture that unabashed pondering brings.

    In the dream there was a girl draped in a sunset gown, trapped within a block of ice and floating in the sea. The water was briny as ocean water is, and I swam out to her with my condolences strapped across my shoulders like a satchel. She was sad and from another world and we spoke briefly until a pair of sharks approached. It was important to note that the sharks were crossing each-other, which meant that their fins were facing opposite directions making an x. I knew they would dance forth to devour me ankle-first, so bade the sunset farewell and swam desperately to shore. There was a tall building on the main-land and I entered through the front door. Gaieties were in order; party people and somber folk mixed together as if they in combination were the absolute norm. I sifted through the blend and crossed the theatre stage, passed classroom doorways, and even entered the never-ending attic which has existed in countless dreams past. This old cavernous storage space boasts canned goods, clothing, boxes and so forth, but with each step, the objects within appear ever more colorful and fascinating. And as you delve deeper into its dark bowels, the attic seems to tip, and you slide in further without exerting any force whatsoever. In the attic, you move forward without taking a step, and spiders weave their webs behind you at a shockingly rapid pace. Once out of the attic (somehow), wonderful things began to take place incorporating tones of lush greens and royal purples, but my conscious mind cannot register or recollect such beauty at this time.

    Back to the present, consider the voice- how it curves and trembles magically- or so it seems. Can the voice be drawn back as if it were on a yo-yo string? Can it retract like a tape-measure after hitting the wrong pitch or transmitting the wrong words? While it moves across space and even sometimes across time, the voice carries so many meanings in its delicate net. Draping sound across the temporal abyss that is the melody between each heart-beat, the voice brings truth and illusion to the table. And there are no chairs, few reservations, and never is a guest for want of breath.

January 30, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

By the Lagoon

    Do you remember how to tell a scary story? Yesterday deep in the night, a young man recalled his youthful nightmares which have transformed into sentimental thrills of an old boy’s waking moments.

    Once long ago in the very high mountains, an elf-child clambered up mighty rocks, in pursuit of intrigue. Up ahead, laden with numerous satchels, the leanly muscled healer embraced his envious pursuers despite the dry heat. In the distance, an abandoned mine yawned with its first breaths of awakening, as strange organic chemicals leaked with a vengeance out of his gaggle-toothed chasm. The adventurers approached as dusk set in, and an icy metal tank encased their weary bodies as they with rest renewed themselves for the unpredictable excitement that lay ahead. For a span of days, they strove to discover magic and wealth. They worked as a team, sweating and swearing for success’ sake. But rewards were few, and the grand treasure proved a fair illusion, far more transparent than the silk of a skillful moth. There was a curse on the head of the temptress, who chanted her melodies of shiny gold and diamonds. Her voice was a double-edged sword, and her promises of fine winnings led more than a few fervent travelers into the quickest of sand. Fortunate for the child and his loving guides, the fresh waters of a sweet-flowing river shone brighter in the morning than all the stars in the skies of their wildest dreams. Thus, a refreshing swim pelted all senses to a pulp of utter contentment, and the grateful men of the white lagoon lingered until mid-day together in the lap of nature. So, while spirits still swim through the water-ways under the floor-boards and murmurs divide sane minds in two jagged halves night after urban night, all is well in the mountains. The clouds rest assured of this uncanny peace and link arms with chubby hearts brimming over and over again with grandfatherly love.

January 21. 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Relief's Wool Cloak

    When the small lithe branches twist carefully around warm paths of leaf-life, the sun shakes her head with a sigh. Plastered to the ground like a patch-work quilt, autumn colors hum low beneath the surface, taunting out of tune despite their studies. Delving deep into the fish-filled divide, the villager’s nets came up straining full of leather boots and tic-tac-toes, but the rain enriched the day despite the downpour. What little do we know of circuitries and web-weavers, and yet we attempt to define time and splice life. Moments tip forward like a bottle at the brink, and every stick of candy lies cloaked on the edge of the sink, expressing itself with one line or another. When all else fails, we have chinks of the moon to gather and sort. Such busy-work leads the way to brighter days. And while the listless clouds release their inner hosts, tear-drops tattle on the dancer as if there were two tomorrows, one kiss, and no more room for excuses.

January 21, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

The Drought of Sensation

    Where is the rain at this time of year? We are thirsty and dry, but feel fulfilled by our journey to the hills and the high that consumed us when we ran around curves and deep into tall grasses. Ferns and the scent of eucalyptus are ever welcome and soothingly warm. Today was precious on the edge of the forest, and returning through the small town of mineral-etched fang-bearers, we lounge in complete contentment on the soft wolf blanket.

    Remember the mountains and breathe to the rhythm of loving thoughts.

January 8, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

As If a Stage

    Lining a long rectangular table, 8 paired birds and I dined together as a kind of farewell. The girl with the old-fashioned smile was joined by her sweetheart whose yellow tendrils of hair lay fine like the fibers flowered tight within an artichoke heart. We spoke of spirits and how the city is too loud for certain sensory perceptions. The innocent open nature of children, the frame of certain bicycles, and undetected tastes in clothing were other topics of the eve, and laughter rolled down the lane free as a gander. Joy was in the air, but my significant darling worked in the dark, distant across town, and I could feel the separation physically but smiled nonetheless. Discussing the cards of the animals, all was made clear with glasses raised, and the musty oil was presented to the traveler who fears the unknown even as she yearns for adventure with utmost passion.

    Returning to the nest, we two shadows curled in bed like the packages of small dogs napping in the park on an autumn afternoon.

                                                                                                                                   

January 7, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Insect at Dawn

We awoke; two generations, six arms, and so late in the day he declared!

                

December 2, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Where the Mountain Meets the Sea

    We trailed along the mountainside, echoing greetings to passerby in such a joyful fashion that sensation nearly overdosed on endless bottles of sheer delight. Descending upon the curved valley of stone couches, we imagined what kinds of fascinating shows might have played themselves out upon a dry dirt stage. The voices of actors-past wisped past our hungry ears like breath from the pottery kiln. And the view, hazy but shining bright, lingered bashfully in the distance. We moved around corners and stepped gingerly over funky rocks, smiling at exposed roots and hovering branches which had become densely greened by humidity’s caress (deep in the night). The lines of fellow journeyers continued like dedicated ants, and our mutual salutes became a kind of game. We reached the fortress, a structure lined with wood and open like the mind’s-eye during a rapid dream. All was well and many forms of humanity perched together in small clusters, tasting the crisp air together as though it were exotic syrup from some mystical tree. But we did not linger. We plunged forward with determination, for the hope of ocean tides churned consistently against the near future. After a small series of leaps, flashes and slow luxurious sips, we three made our way to the bottom of the mountain and trudged through the sand to the lip of the sea. And all was well.

    Much later, music came by to syncopate the evening with its generous presence. Strings tightened, releasing such unpredictable vibrations, and laughter braced against the rough barrier of words left untouched like a forgotten meal. But we consumed every morsel with a passion, and sat back to observe the evidence of our verbal rampage. Time crept behind our backs and took us by surprise, in the dark, in the house, in the middle of the night…There is never a bad time for a good story!

January 1, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Hawk's Eye

Where did the time go this year, and how exactly did it pass? From where I stand spiritually between the crevice dividing feeling and sentiment, the dust indeed falls softly on this fine conclusion to what must have been a year. At least according to the division of days and hours, which in this society we must follow increment-upon-notion in order to collide into one another in perfectly unreliable rhythm. 

A specific measured year has come to its sunset settlement. While the movement of time has led within me to spaces unknown and haunts surfacing magically from the fog of the unforgotten, words are scarce and I fear must be hunted down and bound to the tracks for safe-keeping. 

We walked as the orange fire bled across a sky, complete with ribcage gash and all, feeling the wind raw against cool ears, communicating despite language. The view was enough, as the pleasure of nature snapped for us endless frames content to reside in the picture-postcard-pockets of our minds’ eyes and familial heart-motions. The trees swept audio inklings to the side like a waterfall in reverse, as waves of motion scooted across our path like playful squirrels formed by the substance of comprehension alone. 

Looping about the layered valley as dark approached, we rode the evening with delight, content with the walk and the sparkling of lights. Tree-shadows, our somber living audience, absorbed all shine from the moon, and yet the inverted creature, smooth and crescent, beamed bright enough to leave its kindness glowing upon the ground. 

Even after we had walked away to climb the final hill, that sweet space glowed with enchantment as only memories can, and the interaction of story-telling will be etched in my mind forevermore. So many things to learn from, but never fear, for lessons are painful, but awakening is the most beautiful state after the sort of deep sleep that is troubled by change. 

I am the hawk, and will be observing keenly with discernment, taking each detail into question and seeking answers within myself rather than attempting to interpret other people. 

They will do as they please, but blending of kind souls is ever more delicious as love grows and the heart knows…Music is the key and life is the rhythm: I will play the strings in harmony and find my melody again and again, defining space with each sigh.

December 31, 2011

Jennifer Montemayor