Posted by: normanlgreen | January 22, 2013

Dream, January 22, 2013 flame inspiring words of the prophet


Dream, home 6:15am

Boney little man of three-quarters size scales the wooden book-case. The bookcase has been nailed to the end of a set of bunk beds. When he reaches the top, he stretches his skeletal self on the upper bunk, facing out into the room, toward me. He reaches into a box on the shelf below him and looks me in the eyes.

“You will hear from the works and words of A Pritchett.” He pulls wrinkled stiff pages from the box – rescued from water damage some years ago. His boney fingers clutch the pages closer to his face as he half-reads, half-recites. “Excessive heat. Breathing risk. Too many of us” He continues in this vein. The room is lit with a dusty sunlight from outside. Everything is of wood or wood product. Only two other people listen to the lesson. The reader goes on in his cackling tone until something shifts in the list on a single word:

“Birds. Beautiful.” The reader drones on with a list of the impossibly beautiful as Frank, the other listener stands to his feet, unblinking. Franks crosses between me and the reader. He heads toward a cabinet attached to the windowless North wall. I want to tell him to stop, but the air in my lungs feels too hot. I have no strength to move.

“Children run up the side-walk, toward something, mouths hung open in glee”

Frank swings open the cabinet door, and the arm he extends toward it bursts into flames. He stands there with his arm extended, impassive as his coat burns the same bright yellow as the dusty sunlight, the edges of the flame a deep amber. I know that the prophet A. Pritchett has arranged his list dangerously: the litany of human-created dangers fall too near the list of beauties too great for us.

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Responses

  1. Shiva like prophet.


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