Inside there was the grey lamb. “And finally, Noe, we meet.” It stepped gingerly toward Noe, picking up a pine bough in its mouth. White moths were covering the lamb’s neck like a wreath. “I suppose you will be wondering what happened to Cyril, but perhaps you won’t be.” The lamb nosed the hole in Noe’s stomach and opened its mouth. A piece of honeycomb fell out onto the floor, oozing honey. “Please, have some if you like.” The old woman scooped it up and put it in a glass jar, placing it onto a shelf next to a jar of curds.
“Oh, Noe. We will eat these later.” She smelled the jar of curds wistfully. “But for now I’ll make some tea.” The lamb sat on the floor and watched. The dog shuffled over to the lamb and laid its head on the lamb’s stomach, sighing.
The old woman opened a cupboard full of small glass jars, each containing some form of dried leaves or flowers. A spice odor wafted to where they were watching. She got out four different jars and set them on the table. The kettle hissed. She made a content noise and turned the burner off. From the cupboard below the counter, she got out a medium-sized nut and a gnarled root, which she also set on the table. She hummed a few random notes as she opened other doors, gathering a large glass bowl, two smaller glass bowls, two teacups, a grater, and a bottle of exotic oil. She arrayed the implements. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I promise that the tea I’m making will be worth your wait.” She crinkled her eyes and reached for a glass jar. Just before she could open it, the lamb interrupted her.
“Do you think it would be beneficial to tell us how you’re making the tea?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, of course.” She opened the jar and smelled it. “Thank you for being so helpful. You are very kind.” She took a pinch of leaves from the jar and crushed them with her fingers. “These are stinging nettles. Whenever you brush by one with your bare skin, it stings you. To heal that burn, you can use jewelweed. But dried like this, nettles are gentle as a lamb.” She laughed airily and picked up the grater. “Ginger root is very good for the digestive system. It is very spicy, but it loves you.” She grated the ginger vigorously over the bowl. She breathed over the bowl deeply. She uttered a faint noise and reached for another jar. “Lavender cleanses your blood and refreshes your spirit.” She placed a small handful of lavender in the large bowl and reached for the next jar. She scooped a handful of dried leaves out of the jar, scattering them in the bowl. “Sassafras. Such a fun word to say.” She grinned. “Sassafras.”
“Sassafras,” said the gray lamb. The old woman laughed.
Suddenly she became very serious. “My water is getting cold, so I must be slightly hurried.” She picked up the last jar. “Raspberry blossoms and leaves.” She sprinkled a small palmful into the bowl and smelled. “Good. Now for nutmeg and cedar oil.” She measured a capful of cedar oil and poured it into the bowl. Again, with the grater, she vigorously grated an indeterminate quantity of nutmeg into the bowl. “Finished.” She stirred the contents with a wooden spoon and gently poured hot water on. The tea smelled sour and medicinal. “We should let it brew for at least ten minutes. What should we talk about in the meantime?” She turned over an egg timer.
10/17/11
10/10/11
The gray lamb was still in the brambles, but Noe was in the clearing in his dream. He sat on the leaves and patted the hole in his stomach. Flowers were growing very plentifully inside. He plucked several and smelled them. They smelled just like raspberry flowers. He ate one. It tasted exactly like a raspberry flower. He waited for something to happen, but he didn’t know what he ought to expect. He clenched a handful of grass in his fist and ripped it out of the ground. The gray lamb bounded in from out of the shadows and nosed his hand. It whispered to him. “Feed me that grass,” it said. Noe did this. “Now follow me, young man.” Noe did this.
They walked together toward the edge of the clearing until the lamb stopped suddenly. “Turn around. What do you see?”
Noe looked at the clearing. There was the mound of leaves, the small bit of grass he tore out of the ground, a circle of petals, the vial. Samara.
“Now, go get the samara and the vial. These are symbolic of things you are clearing out of your consciousness. You are, per usual, asleep, but you won’t wake up just yet.” The lamb opened its mouth. Noe placed some of the pine seeds and the vial in the lamb’s mouth. “Yes,” it said. “Now, walk with me.” They walked into the woods. The lamb disappeared behind a tree. “But, young man with the hole in his stomach, I have not disappeared behind a tree. You won’t be able to see me here. I am only visible in there.” Something near his feet rustled. “I will erase that place.”
Noe was afraid, and the voice of the lamb was not comforting. He indicated his fear with his thoughts. “Hush,” said the lamb. “You see, I have eaten you, but you couldn’t possibly realize it yet. Don’t think yourself a fool for this. You simply couldn’t have known.” The lamb laughed a bit, which caused the woods to tremble. “You are dreaming.” The lamb seemed to whisper in Noe’s ear, “I am also dreaming. We are dreaming together, you having been eaten by me. Now, walk that way.” Light rose in the woods, revealing the moss on the trees. “North,” said the lamb. Noe followed the moss.
He walked for what seemed like hours until he came to a small, odorless flower. It grew slightly as he approached. It was slightly pink with a deep red center. Its petals flexed gingerly against one another and arranged to form some kind of mouth analog. When the flower spoke, it was the voice of the lamb. “This is not what you think.”
They walked together toward the edge of the clearing until the lamb stopped suddenly. “Turn around. What do you see?”
Noe looked at the clearing. There was the mound of leaves, the small bit of grass he tore out of the ground, a circle of petals, the vial. Samara.
“Now, go get the samara and the vial. These are symbolic of things you are clearing out of your consciousness. You are, per usual, asleep, but you won’t wake up just yet.” The lamb opened its mouth. Noe placed some of the pine seeds and the vial in the lamb’s mouth. “Yes,” it said. “Now, walk with me.” They walked into the woods. The lamb disappeared behind a tree. “But, young man with the hole in his stomach, I have not disappeared behind a tree. You won’t be able to see me here. I am only visible in there.” Something near his feet rustled. “I will erase that place.”
Noe was afraid, and the voice of the lamb was not comforting. He indicated his fear with his thoughts. “Hush,” said the lamb. “You see, I have eaten you, but you couldn’t possibly realize it yet. Don’t think yourself a fool for this. You simply couldn’t have known.” The lamb laughed a bit, which caused the woods to tremble. “You are dreaming.” The lamb seemed to whisper in Noe’s ear, “I am also dreaming. We are dreaming together, you having been eaten by me. Now, walk that way.” Light rose in the woods, revealing the moss on the trees. “North,” said the lamb. Noe followed the moss.
He walked for what seemed like hours until he came to a small, odorless flower. It grew slightly as he approached. It was slightly pink with a deep red center. Its petals flexed gingerly against one another and arranged to form some kind of mouth analog. When the flower spoke, it was the voice of the lamb. “This is not what you think.”
7/31/11
Dream scene
In his dreams one night, he saw a gray lamb looking away from him. It lay on a small mound of red and yellow leaves in the center of a clearing. When he approached, it turned its head to look at him. It bent its head toward the ground and opened its mouth. Flower petals fell out of the lamb’s mouth, settling to the ground in a perfect ring. Lastly, a small vial fell out of the lamb’s mouth. The young man knelt to take the lamb’s head in his arms, sensing that it was the most appropriate thing to do. The lamb whispered to the young man in a very deep voice.
“Who are you, young man?”
“I am the young man with a hole in my abdomen,” he replied.
The lamb drew back its head to observe and consider him. “Look at me,” the lamb said. He looked, and the lamb had a wreath of long-needled pine boughs around its neck. “Take the samara from this wreath, please.” He took a pinecone and felt its roughness. The young man was bewildered. The lamb nestled its head in the young man’s lap. When the lamb breathed, it smelled exactly like raspberry blossoms, which the young man had smelled before.
He remembered the vial and glanced at it, lying in the ring of flower petals. The lamb shifted slightly. “The secret is to dry it,” the lamb said. The sky quickly darkened.
The lamb slowly rose from its bed of leaves and walked into the forest. The young man stood but he couldn’t follow. He woke up.
“Who are you, young man?”
“I am the young man with a hole in my abdomen,” he replied.
The lamb drew back its head to observe and consider him. “Look at me,” the lamb said. He looked, and the lamb had a wreath of long-needled pine boughs around its neck. “Take the samara from this wreath, please.” He took a pinecone and felt its roughness. The young man was bewildered. The lamb nestled its head in the young man’s lap. When the lamb breathed, it smelled exactly like raspberry blossoms, which the young man had smelled before.
He remembered the vial and glanced at it, lying in the ring of flower petals. The lamb shifted slightly. “The secret is to dry it,” the lamb said. The sky quickly darkened.
The lamb slowly rose from its bed of leaves and walked into the forest. The young man stood but he couldn’t follow. He woke up.
7/17/11
Melons
Before the archer became a famous marksman, he drove heavy wooden stakes into the ground for the utility of his growing melons. He would wrap their vines around the stakes in order to support their weight. Over time, the vines became thick indeed, the fibers becoming useful materials in the making of his bowstrings.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
7/10/11
Beast
Yours is the heart.
We have never played together
in all the years that we have been
together, in the baptismal font,
or lounging on the sofa or the
chaise. Yet the beads that we
could have made
could have strung
are sprawled out like a pack
of African beasts are scattered
on the savanna, specifically, and idly at that.
Especially pertaining is the manner in which
you fight against the droves of seagulls or the ugly horseflies
by placing two cigarettes in the heart of a wildebeest and stroking your throat
roughly with one hand, tight as a gibbet's joints.
Your young and creaking arthritis. Your sleep apnea. Joys! Joys!
You chill your bones with a great deal of fruits, dealing
in zen and violence in equal measure and similar explosion.
Convulsing, as you do, as you will, if you would, out of revulsion,
repulsing, spurting maggot zebra.
You have been expelled from the inner sanctum
with zen and violence in equal measure. And,
with zen and violence in equal measure,
you fell beasts and fabricate any number of elaborate carpets.
Listen to your occidental symphonies and thump your breast,
your thumping beast heart. Pounding at that.
We have never played together
in all the years that we have been
together, in the baptismal font,
or lounging on the sofa or the
chaise. Yet the beads that we
could have made
could have strung
are sprawled out like a pack
of African beasts are scattered
on the savanna, specifically, and idly at that.
Especially pertaining is the manner in which
you fight against the droves of seagulls or the ugly horseflies
by placing two cigarettes in the heart of a wildebeest and stroking your throat
roughly with one hand, tight as a gibbet's joints.
Your young and creaking arthritis. Your sleep apnea. Joys! Joys!
You chill your bones with a great deal of fruits, dealing
in zen and violence in equal measure and similar explosion.
Convulsing, as you do, as you will, if you would, out of revulsion,
repulsing, spurting maggot zebra.
You have been expelled from the inner sanctum
with zen and violence in equal measure. And,
with zen and violence in equal measure,
you fell beasts and fabricate any number of elaborate carpets.
Listen to your occidental symphonies and thump your breast,
your thumping beast heart. Pounding at that.
4/24/11
The sultan lay in his bedchamber, cooing to his harem.
He called to his favorite concubine, who approached shyly and lay beside him, warming her feet, which were cold from the marble floor.
She whispered a poem very softly to herself. She imagined the artifice in the sultan's bedchamber, wooden animals and silken tapestries gathered. She lay on a feather bed and the sultan lay a bunch of grapes on her face.
"Eat, darling." He spoke milk.
She ate them, and they were very sweet grapes. She rested a moment.
The sultan puckered his lips next to her ear, making kissing sounds. He touched her inner thigh and touched her necklace, inlaid with lapis.
She kissed his earlobe and asked him a question in a moment of intimacy: "What, my liege, do you most fear?"
He pressed the sides of her face with his warm hands, which were slightly damp. He responded calmly. "I cannot tell you what I most fear." He kissed her over and over. "I cannot tell you what I most fear, sweet mistress, because then you will use it to exploit me."
The concubine massaged his chin. "I am certain of the care I may take when thinking of you." She nestled and paused, breathing. "I may tell you what I fear, however."
The sultan did not move. He snorted in mock exasperation. "Perhaps you ought not."
The concubine massaged his chin again. "But I shall now. I fear ruining the moments we share, or sullying the great affection we have for one another."
He clapped his hand over her mouth.
She spoke into it, "I fear this so, every day I live. I cannot move or breathe from this fear."
The sultan rose from his feather bed and ate an apricot, tossing the pit into bed next to her. "You will do well to plant this in the garden. Nurture it and cause it to grow large and fruitful. That is all that remains for it, the stone."
She took the stone and placed it underneath her pillow every night for two years before finally planting it in the countryside on one of her many trips. It was stunted and bore a multitude of minuscule and inedible fruit.
A cockatoo in the cage of the sultan's bedchamber spoke of fear when offered crackers, and this could never be trained out of the bird. It was killed and buried in the garden, next to a rose bush, which bloomed very brightly and fully.
He called to his favorite concubine, who approached shyly and lay beside him, warming her feet, which were cold from the marble floor.
She whispered a poem very softly to herself. She imagined the artifice in the sultan's bedchamber, wooden animals and silken tapestries gathered. She lay on a feather bed and the sultan lay a bunch of grapes on her face.
"Eat, darling." He spoke milk.
She ate them, and they were very sweet grapes. She rested a moment.
The sultan puckered his lips next to her ear, making kissing sounds. He touched her inner thigh and touched her necklace, inlaid with lapis.
She kissed his earlobe and asked him a question in a moment of intimacy: "What, my liege, do you most fear?"
He pressed the sides of her face with his warm hands, which were slightly damp. He responded calmly. "I cannot tell you what I most fear." He kissed her over and over. "I cannot tell you what I most fear, sweet mistress, because then you will use it to exploit me."
The concubine massaged his chin. "I am certain of the care I may take when thinking of you." She nestled and paused, breathing. "I may tell you what I fear, however."
The sultan did not move. He snorted in mock exasperation. "Perhaps you ought not."
The concubine massaged his chin again. "But I shall now. I fear ruining the moments we share, or sullying the great affection we have for one another."
He clapped his hand over her mouth.
She spoke into it, "I fear this so, every day I live. I cannot move or breathe from this fear."
The sultan rose from his feather bed and ate an apricot, tossing the pit into bed next to her. "You will do well to plant this in the garden. Nurture it and cause it to grow large and fruitful. That is all that remains for it, the stone."
She took the stone and placed it underneath her pillow every night for two years before finally planting it in the countryside on one of her many trips. It was stunted and bore a multitude of minuscule and inedible fruit.
A cockatoo in the cage of the sultan's bedchamber spoke of fear when offered crackers, and this could never be trained out of the bird. It was killed and buried in the garden, next to a rose bush, which bloomed very brightly and fully.
4/7/11
Dream Dream
The season is late winter, with snow still laying around waiting to melt, ice in some places, et cetera.
Walking out of a bar in my cowboy boots in the snow, making it difficult to walk, a female travel companion and I walk toward the park, where the sun is shining. We step into the mud and snow and it is an open field. a wild boar comes running up to me, curious, and then leaves.
My family and I are standing in the field when two large trucks let loose a pair of hummer-sized boars with no faces, tusks, or eyes. They possessed only a single gigantic snout for rooting, eating, and smelling. One comes up to me curiously. I was frightened for my life, but it only smelled me and was completely gentle. Then it signed and lay on the grass. My dad said, “That means it’s going to die. Don’t anybody touch it or else you’re not coming home.” I got the sense that he would have called a bus for us.
There was a picture book story of a number of different dead animals. First, it mentioned the boar-thing. Then it settled on the picture of an emaciated lion. “He has been here for months.” I got the sense that the fur was very well preserved for it being dead so long. There were a profusion of other things, such as an eagle being forcibly relieved of its beak..
Next there was an aquarium of bizarre things. Mostly it was bugs and sponge like things eating one another or combining in some way to cause each to die. For instance: a silverfish swims inside of a gelatinous, predatory tubule, which then rockets into the water out of fear and then turns from green and translucent to white and opaque, drifting down to rest, standing up, next to a number of different similarly rendered tubules. Also, there was a great deal of glowing matter around, which shone very brightly in the dark.
Walking out of a bar in my cowboy boots in the snow, making it difficult to walk, a female travel companion and I walk toward the park, where the sun is shining. We step into the mud and snow and it is an open field. a wild boar comes running up to me, curious, and then leaves.
My family and I are standing in the field when two large trucks let loose a pair of hummer-sized boars with no faces, tusks, or eyes. They possessed only a single gigantic snout for rooting, eating, and smelling. One comes up to me curiously. I was frightened for my life, but it only smelled me and was completely gentle. Then it signed and lay on the grass. My dad said, “That means it’s going to die. Don’t anybody touch it or else you’re not coming home.” I got the sense that he would have called a bus for us.
There was a picture book story of a number of different dead animals. First, it mentioned the boar-thing. Then it settled on the picture of an emaciated lion. “He has been here for months.” I got the sense that the fur was very well preserved for it being dead so long. There were a profusion of other things, such as an eagle being forcibly relieved of its beak..
Next there was an aquarium of bizarre things. Mostly it was bugs and sponge like things eating one another or combining in some way to cause each to die. For instance: a silverfish swims inside of a gelatinous, predatory tubule, which then rockets into the water out of fear and then turns from green and translucent to white and opaque, drifting down to rest, standing up, next to a number of different similarly rendered tubules. Also, there was a great deal of glowing matter around, which shone very brightly in the dark.
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