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
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