He ran into our view, greeting his mother, and found his place in his wheelchair. Once he was in, we all seemed to forget that he had been upright and agile seconds prior. Our thoughts turned to “Oh, the poor boy!”
Of course, he was 21 years old, but may as well have been 12; with his short, neat red hair, striped gator shirt, braces. I hadn’t seen him since my mother’s 40th bash 11 years past, when myself and another lad teased him for no reason at all. Quite out of character for myself, but I guess I was sort of a pushover and went along with things like that. And while he now appeared a completely different boy, he still appeared a boy. Bookworm cute, very polite, and even charming – the center of all attention. Christopher.
“Did you go see your Indian?” He was speaking to me. Apparently we had conversed somewhat recently? I remember now; that always seems to happen – it happened with the wheelchair. Once he sat down I realized “Oh, didn’t he get hit?” “Oh, didn’t we speak by mail or something?” Of course, I hadn’t yet spoken to my Indian. I knew what he might say, and didn’t consider myself ready for that kind of leap. Or perhaps I had…
“Yeah, yeah…I did. Um, he gave me this letter…” My brain struggled to form a concise verbal explanation of what my Indian had, in fact, laid on me. Externally, these thought processes form only a sort of uncomfortable pause, which someone (Christopher) must take their cue to fill.
“You must go out,” he explained, adding some age before me, “and leave behind all that you know, taking only that letter with you.” The middle-aged women around us murmured sounds of surprise and wise approval. Sounds of a Jewish sewing circle. I knew that was what would happen from seeing my Indian. I knew it would happen by telling Christopher. I would be told exactly how I was to attain my wisdom. My harmony. To attain my certification of humanity. But I wasn’t ready.
I myself have not yet completed 21 cycles. I’m still having fun. Preparing for college, taking on residences with loved ones. Enjoying lacks of responsibility and care, while adopting selected ones. Enlightenment would take that away. I’d become this serious face. A stern man. A cold, fearsome Indian. That was why I’d been reluctant. That was why the letter remained in some out-of-mind place.
We left the indoor gathering of mothers through the back door, out to the grassy hills of children. We had been their age when I last saw him, or at least it had seemed. I wasn’t completely certain what to make of things.
A ball rolled past and he sprang up from his seat and was off, and the question was back; I suddenly remembered his sprint at his arrival. Was he paralyzed or not? By the time I wondered it, he was already sat back down. Maybe he’s in recovery, and is practicing his walk. Maybe he was never paralyzed, he’s just not currently in a fully able state. And then he was up and out again, for quite some time. Eventually the wheelchair rolled away.
It crossed my mind to ask him these things if only for clarification, but every time a question arrived it seemed to be immediately answered and summarily pushed aside. This happened all day. Besides, was it really so important to be told what had happened to him? Apparently, I already knew.
So wouldn’t Christopher’s knowledge of the ways of the Indian imply that he had made his way through the process I face, or a similar one, and he is more outgoing and fun-loving, it seems, than he or I had ever been? After all, why should enlightenment and self-realization drain one of fun? Quite the opposite, when you think about it. You should see the light and humor in all things. And these things that tie us down, should they really be so exalted as to keep us from actualizing the biological beings we are and finding our true place in this scheme and among each other? Freeing ourselves requires breaking bonds, even those we have forged!
I came across the letter. I’m not sure where I had thought it to be, but it was now in my back pocket, in my hand. I pictured where I thought it might take me, and assured myself that anyplace I could imagine would not be someplace I would find myself. Fantasy is never an accurate forecast. While I may like to think my questions are being answered without being asked, I can’t be assured that the answers are accurate, that they’ve come from anyplace other than my imagination.

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2 July 2011

i’m at some kind of awards ceremony in LA, an outdoors estate, white pillars and arches, golden fountains, rows of folding chairs and well-dressed celebrities. i pace back and forth on the right hand-side, along the garden fence, cell phone to my ear tho maybe i’m not even using it. just a disguise. at the right moment i sneak thru the door by the stage, into the building. the ceremony is over now and i’m in the empty church. i enter the door to one of the radiating chapels (the term after looking it up, did not know it in the dream) and in the dark, pale blue light streaming in with my female partner in crime, we find the pool. There in the center of the room, the white marble floor descends, becoming a pool of clear blue water some ten to twelve feet deep. Having just learned last week in waking life to dive, swim downward and retrieve objects underwater, i dive down until i reach the brass plate at the very bottom. There is a single flat-head screw the size of a nickel on the left side. I am running short of air and first think i should return to the surface for a breath and a screwdriver, but i muster my strength, turn the screw with my thumbnail and remove the plate. As i rush back to the surface, the pool drains into the hole where the plate had covered.
When the water is gone, there is an ornate silver box, 8-9′ x 5′ x 2′. Whatever is inside is what we have come for, we pick it up and hide behind the altar as two officials or priests approach the door…

3 July 2011
im in the field, the corner pasture by the driveway, the section which we just fenced in waking life, and a python, 20 feet long and thick as my leg, slithers along the ground. The kids might be around, and i feel protective. I step on the snake’s neck, then reach and grab the snake at the back of the head, squeezing in the way that makes the mouth open and venom sprays out like a hose with a finger over it. Venom evrywhere. Then another python, same thing. A python now in each hand. Then a third. i Don’t panic but what do i do exactly? Seemed to not be a problem… Three poison pythons…
At the Ghostbuster booth i give them a phone number and then receive my new ID/credit card, but the last four digits are wrong. i tell them and they say no no it’s correct without looking. mom is there and i shout at them no it’s not fucking right. im not mad but don’t you tell me it’s correct. they see and apologize and take the card to fix it. im looking for garbage bags in the school building before dawn. much confusion ensues. nice morning fog. dehydrated.

dehydration, confusion and poison snakes – that is what happens after three beers and two cigarettes.

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“Lao Tse said: ‘The thing about the desert people always seem to forget about is the wind. It never stops, and your mouth and eyes have no protection from it. Wind has swiftly carried your open society around the globe, and I am sorry. It will one day will wear it down, fill it and bury it. In the desert, attackers move as fast as the blowing sand itself.’”

This is not really a quote from Lao Tse or anyone. I stayed up for 40 hours, followed by 16 hours sleep which just ended with reading that paragraph in a book. I almost let myself forget it until i realized it’s not from any old book, it’s from my brain just now. Not that i mind having inspired quotes dropped on me, but it’s springtime! This is too heavy for spring, i’m goin outside!

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