09.24.10

Dream.

We were wading across the shallow end of the pool. I'd bob in and out of the cold water, which would shift from sea water, to pool water, to sea water, as I shuffled across tiles, and sand, and tiles again.

When submerged, I kept my eyes open. The water was clear, save for a thousand bubbles hurrying up to the surface. It was a strange frenzy of those pods and pods of air, those little orbs of void, whose movements were dictated solely by the laws of physics, while I could choose to anchor myself to the bottom, or to bubble up to the surface myself.

It took a while for me to realize that I was not just surrounded by bubbles, but by jellyfish as well. The translucency of their bodies were deceptive. They were only pockets of air themselves, encased in a soft membrane that moved like the skirts of women that men longed for. Each one was only about the size of a small orange. Their color: yellowing.

The waters began to grow more violent, and the jellyfish seemed to multiply before my very eyes. I stood up, and I found myself wading through a thick mass of pulsing, yellowing flesh, being tossed around by the wind. There were jellyfish everywhere. They swam through the air, through the agitated wind, whizzing past trees, and shooting up across the darkening skies.

I climbed out of the pool, and found shelter in a friend's arms. When I woke up from my dream, I had forgotten his face.

10.29.09

Dream

(Or at least the fragments of.)

He spoke of a night he spent alone on a boat, under the stars, in the Arctic Sea, where he basked in the glory of Everything. The entire night, he spent, just gazing at the sky, watching the stars slowly drift through the darkness.

Soon, the sun began to rise and he lay still on the wooden platform of his boat, allowing the gauzy glow of the sun to sink into his bare skin. He let his eyes drift from the slow illumination of the sky, to the massive glaciers looming over him, to the ice-cold water, gently licking the bow, begging, incessantly. He knew what he had to do.

He stood up, and, with an air of nonchalance, walked over to the edge of the boat, then took a step or two back, then drove headfirst into the Arctic. With that one, cold splash, he broke the silence.

♫

There's a song. Stirring. With no words. Nor melody. Nor any sound (that is, at least, perceptible to our ears). But it stirs, nonetheless, in its quiet spirit of restlessness, as it is decidedly there. In undeniable existence. In me. In knots, in rivers, in truth. In a language that transcends all things. And non-things.

It yearns to be realized in full comprehension. To be written. To have all its pipes and parts laid out in chaos, and in form, with Tangibility as its shameless aspiration. 

That is the heart of the song that knows no bounds.