As memories sink into the subconscious, light bends the appearance of a log on its return to the soft wet earth. Into the waters of time, the slow slide of experience is transformed into the rich material from which myths arise. The still pond dreams of craggy ramparts overrun by a verdant army.
pulling back from the shoreline retreating toward the vanishing point leaving behind a plastic head dangling in a closet without space
Once there were two lovers who met at a cascading waterfall with three pools. It was love at first sight at the top pool which was crystal clear. The sandy bed cushioned their feet and the surface sparkled in their eyes. The waterfall made the pool full of bubbles tickling their bodies as they swam in bliss.
Eventually they wandered down to the middle pool where the waterfall flowed with less power than at the top. It was warm and pleasant. This emerald green pool mirrored the canopy of the trees. It was so serene that the lovers knew their lives could be spent there. It seemed as if each were a part of the other. Their bodies swam together in perfect synchronicity.
Then they wandered down to the bottom pool, or really more a black pond where the waterfall came to a trickle. It was so dark there under the heavy canopy that it could’ve been a cave.
The lovers accidentally fell into the black pond. It became thick and sticky. The lovers argued about what to do and who got them in this situation as the water became a sludge. Transfixed, they could see faint traces of skeletons intertwined at the center.
When they escaped the black pond and made it back to the middle pool, it appeared differently to them. Not as serene as before. The emerald green pool lost its luster. The canopy was dull and sagging. It was as if the black pond had oozed upstream.
The lovers ran desperately to the top pool. Somehow the top pool had changed but it had become even richer. The effervescence broke on their skin. And as they swam in that most blissful of pools, their bodies transformed into caustics of light.
The morning light yawns across the desert.
stagnant water reflect a dull sky dim lights flicker in a stubborn box dust flaps against glass
Once there was a boy and a girl who went into the woods but only the boy returned. The villagers went looking for the girl but only found her clothes drenched in blood. And when they demanded that the boy tell them what had happened, he could not speak a word.
Some of the villagers blamed the boy for killing the girl and demanded that he give up his life in return.
Other villagers blamed the boy’s parents for not raising him correctly and demanded that the parents pay the ultimate price for the endless sorrow of the girl’s parents.
And others blamed the girl for going into the woods with the boy and said she got what she deserved.
And some even blamed her parents for not teaching her better and thought they also deserved to go in the woods and never come back with their self-inflicted sadness.
One villager said that they all were to blame for this tragedy because they should’ve prevented the boy and girl from going into the woods in the first place. But the rest of the villagers blamed him for blaming them for something that did not involve them or their children as they saw it.
And that night, suspicions grew so wildly that some villagers set fire to the homes of those they blamed. And they in turn torched the homes of whoever they blamed. Eventually the entire village was on fire.
In the morning, the villagers were ready to kill each other when the missing girl stepped out of the woods.
And they blamed her for destroying their village and so they knew they had to sacrifice her. They decided it was best to sacrifice the boy as well for not talking, even though the boy pleaded that he did not talk for the very reason that he had seen them do this before.
And after they burned them at the stake, the villagers rebuilt their homes together and lived in brief harmony until the next outburst of blame and it’s only solution.
In the dark sea of the desert, there was an island. As we sailed by in our car, I snapped this shot. The sight matched an image inscribed in me decades ago when I saw Arnold Böcklin’s painting Die Toteninsel in Berlin.
How strange to be driving in the Southwest decades later and suddenly think of someone else’s dream. And to feel the tone of that dream image materialized to such a scale that it stretched entirely around our car. For a brief absurd moment, it felt as if I were suspended in that dream visiting a cemetery of shadows from the window of our moving coffin.