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Friday, January 25, 2013

I can find another portal to my own heaven by the sounding of kind drums


A rare opportunity:


Riding west to dreamland my mouth was getting dry across the empty sands I twisted, not able yet to sleep. I was moving in the right direction, though, because it often happens on the way to dreamland that my mouth begins to dry. That’s a sign.

I made my sunset journey over the wall like an illegal immigrant, through the desert where bones of daring dreamers are found, hope for me is there also, in the dark.

If no angel helps one cross, it can be dangerous, mortal, or victorious. Sleep is close to death. Anyway I often suffer just before getting comfortable in sleep’s heaven.

Once in dreamland I can find another portal to my own heaven by the sounding of kind drums coming from a triangle grove of trees in the park of a foreign city, calling me and my companions to the fount of our dreams. I slip into this dream - or is it new reality?

I was in bed with my love, the poet. We were so sleepy and tired together, resting and enjoying being next to each other as if sunning on the beach.

Earlier I had been in another town visiting my daughters. We had stopped at a place to get fish and chips, and I emptied out my wallet looking for some way to pay. I couldn’t find any credit cards, and knew I shouldn’t use them anyway. I found no cash, unfortunately, and I wondered if I might have a check hidden somewhere between the folds. The only thing I found I couldn’t use – It was a large bill from another country. My eldest daughter said I should keep the foreign money for when I go back. She ended up paying for our fish and chips; though I felt determined I should pay. I also bought them  (somehow) a pack of four little trolls that seemed to charm them.

Now, in bed with my dear poet relaxing I realized that I hadn’t told my husband where I was and he would worry and wonder about me if I didn’t come home tonight. I told my poet this and looked at my watch. It was 9:01 p.m. I better call home. I told the poet I was nervous because I would be lying to my husband. The poet didn’t share my concerns; instead he was getting obsessed with the four little troll dolls. He was about to give one of his perturbed art lectures on what makes trolling a good or a bad art, but I told him to tell me about it later, right now I had to call home.

My stepdaughter answered the phone. Her father was busy so I left a message that I had gone to Burlington to drop off …  some stuff. (- I almost said, my daughters, but I realized that was a bad cover because my girls did not live in the direction of Burlington). Anyway, I told my stepdaughter that the poet who wrote, “sleep pays my wages” had offered to let me stay at his house so I wouldn’t have to drive at night.

Actually we seemed to be in a hotel. I had a feeling my teenaged step daughter didn’t believe me. After she said o.k. And hung up, I began to feel guilty as if just realizing the full implications of being married to Cal– but wait - I’m not married to him now - not since 2001. My Life’s Companion is the not terribly jealous beekeeper, Ross, that’s my real life since 2006 – these facts made me suspect something unreal about the sleeping situation and the wonderful feeling of my dear old poetry and art companion resting so near me.

I was lucid enough to know I was truly in bed. In bed with my poet, deeply enjoying my feelings of love for him and that relaxed safe feeling I have whenever I’m with him, absorbing his vibrations. But he is dead! I remembered rudely, as of October 13, 2012. And I woke up, with dread about having to part from this rare opportunity to be with my old friend, and relief that I had done nothing wrong, nothing adulterous, no lies, and no distrust.

And anyhow, as my writer and artist friend used to say: When I am gone so too will my secrets be passed, like the leaves that fall from deciduous trees.

I may not always remember my dreams but I know I was on my way to dreamland that night.  And the feeling of my friend washing over me, declared that poetry is a true love of mine. Thanks for sprinkling sand in my hair before ascending. Those sands of poems, art, and life I know from the earth we shared, Thank you.
Monkey and nude, encaustic collage by Alice Eckles






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