Wait. There I was,
stranded in a dream
a beautiful dream.
Grandfather was there, at least in spirit, as we drove through the barely rolling land, infinite and green. We were caught in the moment before, where desire spills forth onto the land like sunshine from within reflecting back, mounting an end to our separation. How the crops spring forth from the black fertile.
And we cannot find a place secluded enough. Neither in the fields nor the woods, which spring up like isolated island patches, but which are overrun and barren beneath (like woods sheep grazed), thus they are only continuations of the field, except with grass and a canopy. The breeze is in through the open windows, cool dew. The grass wet wiping on the underside of the car sounds like water and ice in a large cooler. Or was that only a memory, not in my dream?
We cannot find a place secluded enough, as we search through the rebuilt land of memory, or is it dream? As we search the fertile fields of grandfather, and grandfather’s father, and his too? (And then what, the native americans ran off, the trees not cut down, the swamps not drained – hell that definitely wasn’t part of the dream, or memory.)
Desire reflects back a rebuilt land of fertile memory. And we drive through searching for a place of seclusion, where desire can reflect back a body of fertile memory. How is it, that inhabiting the dreamscape of past and present, we seek out a lack, an object of each other, an intercourse that will overcome – momentarily? Did lack create desire create the dreamscape? Can the dreamscape overcome, reflecting back, overtaking the self within it, rising out of the body? That is the body becomes the landscape. As does hers. What kind of desire then? What kind of inhabited desire then? Is this only an extension of lack, or a reformulation of desire? Is zen inhabitable? Is this tantrism?
Why do we want it resolved? In my dreams, I search the fertile reconstructions of past and present with all its fields green, sunshine and blue for the place of seclusion. Am I struggling to preserve the self?
Grandfather was there, at least in spirit. He has merged with the land.
Why do I always write to resolution?
(But to keep it pregnant with commodifiable potential isn’t exactly what I’m after either.)
Look, I try to make the meta-cognition explicit. Do we see the decisions of writing as we write them? In dreams, can we come to know we are dreaming, and thus modify the contents while within them? And if so, hardly can we limit this to dreams. Seeing mechanisms of belief and their swirling shifty truthy landscapes as we change the structure of belief. What is the other way? Only a void? The blindness of creation?
Faith.