Allison Dreams, part 2

Chapter 3 of The Book of Seasons plods on with the second of four dreams the preposterous narrator dreamed, having fallen asleep the night Durwood Wakdjunkaga (although the narrator still does not know that is his supernatural visitor-from-the-future’s name).

The first dream, yesterday, was pretty classically Romantic and tinged with purple in every way—especially stylistically. This one is meant to be more prosaic, at least until Greek mythology overtakes every possible reality toward the end…

The Book of Seasons

chapter three, continued

Then, abruptly, so that even dreaming I was disturbed by the suddenness for a moment until caught up again, I was in a park. The sun was blazing in a perfect, flat and azure sky, almost but not quite uncomfortably warm. And I was arguing with the girl, my lover.

Only a few minutes earlier we had been walking together, her body pressed close against my side within the comfort of my arm — step for step, like cats in the sunshine, luxuriant, all senses glittering and numbed at once. Now ruptured.

The girl was rather short, auburn-tressed, with long fine hair, brown eyes, full lips. She was talking to me now, chiding me. Evidently I was a jealous lover, and my possessiveness upset her. She was haranguing me, yelling at me, disgusted with my suspicious nature. She would do as she pleased, go where she chose. And perhaps it would be best if we should terminate our relationship.

She glared at me for an answer to that, but I felt too weak to speak. She laughed: what? No words for once? And she turned away, to run off into the trees.

I could not let her leave.

I wanted to reach out to her before she moved too far away, to touch her shoulder and tenderly return her to me. An eternity she stood, poised to leave, but arms would not move to restrain her. And she began to run.

To call out. I wanted to tell her to come back. I love you; don’t go. But those words, no words came out. I was silent, and only the afternoon breeze spoke in the leaves with insect and bird sounds.

And, instantly, as she reached the edge of the cleared space through which we’d been walking, I thought:

You will not leave me,
though you will go
busborne into the southwest.
You will not leave me,
though you will go,
because I have your picture
smiling at me
within my wallet, upon my bookshelf,
xeroxed in the green and colored bodies
of my mind.
You will not leave me,
though you will go,
for I have preserved you in my eyes:
between the retina and the lens,
microscopic,
you pass a liquid double life,
performing periodically upon my sight;
and I’ll transform you someday
into a poem.

When she reached the edge of the open space. And she stopped there to look back at me. But no, she was continuing on at the same time, faster than before. No, rather she was standing quite still there, beside the trees, gazing at me, warm, affectionate. Even as she ran off.
She seemed to become two. And slowly the vision which had stopped grew very still, stiffer, awkward, straighter, narrower, stranger. As she disappeared, she who ran away from sight, she also became transformed, she who had stood so lovely beside the woods. Her appearance melted, shifted, flowed and flowered into a tree, a stunted linden grown all about with ivy.

And she was gone.

I removed my billfold from my pocket and opened it. Her picture looked up at me from the first plastic window, and the tree grew did to that spot. I smiled, quite warm in the sunlight.

But, of course, she had run completely away.

All right, so I slipped another poem into here, dating—appropriately enough for this dream from about 1974 or ‘75. I like the use of floaters to create a poetic image, but the whole bondage/captive thing is uncomfortable (and was even in the real-life situation upon which this poem and this dream comment). It’s one of those realization moments: when I figured out I needn’t be the speaker in every poem I write, or that I can be as the poet a wiser person than the speaker I may have emotionally wished.

Two more dreams remain in this chapter, and if you have been at all interested in these, you’ll have to wait until next weekend.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

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