Posted by: normanlgreen | October 11, 2011

Dream, October 11, 2011 losing the moorings


Home, 3:50 am

Shocked awake from a long and tiring dream. The jolt loosens the moorings, and the dream snaps away as though pulled with tremendous force.

Dozing between four and five am through milky images that will not congeal.

Earworm: Thanks for the Memories.

From this day, 2010:

The man in the long black coat takes his seat and waits by a still sea. His presence tells the story. He entrusts the script to you, to the one who will kindle the story and nourish it. He starts the idea and you keep it alive. The script of the man in the long black coat will be reduced and divided into four-part, one for each of the principals.

The story is told of the flight of a people down a river in boats and rafts strung together with improvised moorings. The first boat, your boat, has an engine, so it pulls those un-powered through the calm sections and strains to hold them back when the river is rough. A long boat with a rounded keel is tossed into the air by churning milky waters. It spills its contents, but all knew when setting out that many would not complete the trip. There is neither time nor power to stop and search for the lost. They must be abandoned to the will of the river.

The few boats that complete the flight from the “dangerous ones” come to a slow bend in the river. The people remove themselves through the afternoon, cold and bright in autumn, to an old church up the grassy bank. The gray board walls conceal a warm interior of amber tinted candle light. As few as there are of the people, they fill the little spaces in the church so small — a hidden sister church to their own in their abandoned home. They know the keeper of this church only through story. They are not a people who travel. The rector welcomes them because that is his duty. He would have finished his days in near isolation, perhaps a thimble full of parishioners in the country setting. Now he is host, one gray beard amongst many.

You enter the church as the one who brought the people here, not a hero, but a man who fulfilled his obligation to his people. Your grandfather sits with his back to you. He faces a small table of old people and a wall decorated with sacred art unwrapped after its river journey and re hung in this different but old space. A clipping of a large caricature from a yellowed newspaper shows a serious villain with heavy brow, dark mustache and white turban. This is he who drove those who drove you here. It is he when young but already a serious menace. We must not forget what he looks like. All of the people have been waiting for the signal to burn the church, to burn themselves. They will die in the flames as their own choice, rather than be killed by their oppressors. You put your hand calmly on your grandfather’s gray wool shoulders. He does not turn, but there is a conveyed satisfaction. It is time to spill the lamps.

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